The town was called Flintbend, though no one had seen flint in years, and the river hadn't bent since the last quake straightened it.
I came in by the northern path, same as I always do when I'm not sure I've been here before. The sign was new. Or the paint was. Or I had forgotten it.
There was a boy sitting on the fence chewing a stalk of something green.
"You a trader?" he asked.
"Sometimes," I said. "Other times I'm just passing through."
He nodded like that made perfect sense. It usually does to people who haven't asked too many questions of the world yet.
The inn was called The Tin Hen. I've slept in a dozen Tin Hens. This one had a crooked chimney and a three-legged dog that barked at the sun. The innkeeper was named Jori. Or Dena. Or something else. She wore too much lavender oil and exactly enough suspicion.
"You staying long?" she asked.
"No," I said. "I never do."
She gave me a key and a room with a view of the old grain tower—half-collapsed, vines like lazy snakes on its bones.
I dropped my pack on the floor with a sigh it didn't deserve. My bones ached—not from age, but from memory. It's a different kind of tired.
I walked the town. That's what I do. I let streets tell me their stories. Flintbend was quiet. Too quiet to be hiding anything, just loud enough to not be dead.
I passed a shop window and stopped. A red scarf hung there. Handwoven. Loops uneven, colors too proud.
It reminded me of someone. A girl? A boy? No—just the feeling of frost on your neck and a hand tugging yours across a frozen creek. Laughter, maybe. Or fear. Hard to tell anymore.
I moved on.
At the edge of town stood an old stone well with a cracked bucket and no rope. A child was staring into it.
"Is there water?" I asked.
"No," she said. "Just echoes."
I leaned over and dropped a coin.
Clink.
"Still works," I said.
"Are you a wizard?" she asked.
I laughed. "Only on alternate Tuesdays."
She frowned, then nodded solemnly, as if confirming a theory she'd long suspected.
Children are better at truth than adults.
At sunset, I sat by the broken sundial in the square. A man joined me. Didn't ask permission. Didn't need to. Some benches want two people.
"Don't think I've seen you around," he said.
"You have," I said. "You just don't remember."
He chuckled. "One of those, huh?"
I smiled. "Exactly one."
He offered me a drink from his flask. I pretended to sip. He didn't notice.
"You pass through often?"
"Often enough."
"Find what you're looking for?"
"Never. But I've stopped trying."
We talked of nothing. The kind of nothing people think matters—a bad harvest, a good dog, the mayor's idiot nephew. I listened. I always do.
People like to pour themselves into empty cups.
I am very, very good at being a cup.
Back at the inn, I sat at the foot of the bed and emptied my satchel.
A clay sun-disc, chipped. A sky-map woven in six colors—five of them forgotten. A blackglass tooth. A green ribbon, still creased from the day it was given. Too many buttons, not enough explanations.
And the newest addition: a wooden charm from a town I left last week. Or was it last century?
I don't collect value.
I collect echoes.
Someone knocked on the door.
"Who is it?" I called.
Silence.
I opened it anyway. The hallway was empty.
But at my feet was a fresh roll of bread. Still warm. A note tucked into it:
For the traveler who listens. Thank you.
No name. No questions.
I took a bite. It tasted like places that still believe in kindness.
The next morning, I left before dawn.
The dog barked again. The river steamed in the cold. The same boy from the fence saw me off.
"You'll be back?" he asked.
I shrugged. "That depends."
"On what?"
"If the world forgets me first… or if I forget it."
He frowned. "That's a weird thing to say."
"I specialize in weird things," I said.
And then I was walking again.
Dust rose behind me. The town disappeared. Just like the last one.
And the one before that.
And the one I might find again.
My name is Sam.
Some time ago, I was a hero.
Now… not even a memory. A shadow.
How long ago, you ask?
Five, maybe ten thousand years. Long enough that time has lost all meaning.
There were five of us. We traveled together to battle a great evil. Four died destroying it. Somehow, I survived.
I was welcomed home with fanfare. Celebrated as a savior.
Years passed.
I did not age.
Friends and family grew old. Died. I remained. I'm still not sure if it was a blessing from the gods… or a final curse from that creature we destroyed.
But I am immortal.
Can I die?
Not sure. Hasn't happened yet.
I was buried once in a landslide. No food. No water. No air. No sun. I stayed there for years until the earth finally spit me back out.
Right as rain, I got back on the road.
I got some looks in the next town I wandered into—nude, caked in mud and dust. Probably should've stolen some clothes before trying to check into the inn.
The currency I had was no good either. Figures.
One thing I've learned: keep only the money you can spend in a few years, no more. Coins rot in meaning. But goods and services—those hold up.
Sometimes I show up as a tinker, a blacksmith, a seller of potions or herbs. Sometimes I'm simply a storyteller. I have more than a few stories.
Often, that's enough for a night's rest and a meal.
Sure, I don't need to eat.
But I still enjoy the taste of food. And ale.
Sometimes I have a cart. Or a carriage. Tools for trade. But they don't last. Twenty, thirty years—they fall apart. Not worth the effort, most of the time.
There was one civilization, though… a beautiful techno-mage society. Their carts could last a thousand years if the enchantments were kept up.
It was a marvel of a culture.
Shame they turned their weapons inward.
They lasted barely two thousand years.
Now, I gather memories.
Some towns I pass through have interesting characters. People who seem to exist outside of their place, who brush up against something… deeper.
These are the people I spend time with.
These are their stories.
And now—maybe—they are yours too.