It was winter again, and Loren Morgan was now ten years old.
Heavy snow blanketed the hillside, tree branches, and thatched rooftops, turning the entire world into a vast expanse of white.
Pete had stopped herding sheep. Everyone had stored food and grass for the animals ahead of the season. The residents at the foot of the mountain stayed indoors, making handicrafts to sell in the city for money to buy daily necessities.
On sunny days, Mr. Bates wouldn't let Loren go up the mountain, warning that the snow's glare would damage his eyes. When Loren had nothing to do, he sometimes caught small animals in the woods or searched for edible winter plants—but more often, he went to school.
Mr. Bates had prepared some old textbooks and a dictionary in advance. Loren studied them in his spare time. He helped the teacher and the church staff copy documents and letters and quickly mastered all the material. Mr. Bates often said he would grow up to achieve great things.
The school was in a small town at the foot of the mountain. Every morning, Mr. Bates took Loren down by sled, and in the evening, he carried him home on his back. The days passed in this quiet rhythm.
On Christmas Eve, a traveling band visited the town, and Loren and Pete arranged to see their performance.
Red ribbons and strings of colored lights adorned the trees on either side of the road. Festive music played in the shops, while restaurants and bars bustled with warmth and laughter. The glow of yellow lights melted the chill from the air.
Pete and Loren wore thick sweaters under their sheepskin coats, each wrapped in a gray-and-white striped scarf.
Loren kept his hands in his pockets as he watched Pete wolf down a roasted sweet potato he had bought from a street vendor.
"This band has such a weird name," Loren said. "They're called The Three Goddesses of Norn, but all the musicians are men."
He thought for a moment. "It's not like there were 23 genders in 1980s Britain."
Pete shrugged. "Why do you care about that? Can't you just enjoy the music?"
"The performance doesn't start for a while. There's a little market over there. Want to go look around?" Loren had saved some pocket money.
"You go. I'd rather stay inside than freeze in the cold again." Pete shook his head and went to save them a spot.
The so-called market was a string of stalls set up in the alley behind the performance hall—opportunistic vendors selling trinkets to take advantage of the rare bustle in town.
There were woolen socks, gloves, Easter eggs, Russian nesting dolls, and other oddities. Loren even spotted a Chinese nine-link ring puzzle. But he wasn't planning to buy anything. He was just curious.
When he reached the corner of the street, he spotted a thin, white-haired old man sitting alone in a neat suit, slowly sipping a steaming cup of coffee.
In front of him was a fur blanket laid out like a makeshift tablecloth, and on it sat two large books. Strangely, passersby and other vendors didn't seem to notice him at all.
Loren, intrigued, walked closer.
"Hello, sir. May I take a look at these two books?" he asked politely.
The old man looked up, clearly surprised to be addressed by a child.
Loren studied the man's eyes—deep-set and strange. Their color was hard to place. But more than that, they seemed to carry an ancient and unfathomable weight, as though something otherworldly pulsed behind them.
"Of course. They're for sale," the old man said, flashing a calm, carefree smile.
Loren squatted down and reached for the books. One was in English, titled The General Solution of Pictographic Symbols. It was thicker than a dictionary and appeared to be handwritten. The penmanship was immaculate, and the material resembled parchment.
The other book had no title. When Loren touched it, his mind suddenly went hazy. As he opened the cover and his eyes met the title page, he felt a strange sensation, as if he were being pulled inside the book. The feeling vanished in a flash—so quickly that it might have been his imagination.
The title page stated the author's name as "Abraham." The script that followed was indecipherable.
Toward the back were several illustrations, drawn on what felt like thin, bark-like material. The pages were few, soft, and bound together with copper rings.
Both books seemed to radiate something... other.
"How much?" Loren asked, mostly for amusement.
"Oh? You're actually going to buy them?" The old man looked pleased.
"Of course, if the price is reasonable." Loren instinctively grew wary—the man seemed like the type who might inflate the cost on a whim.
"May I ask... are you involved in any copying work?" the old man asked, his tone casual but curious. He seemed more interested in Loren himself than the sale.
Loren blinked, puzzled, but replied truthfully. "Yes. I help the teacher and the church copy documents and letters."
"Haha! Perfect! Fascinating!" The old man laughed heartily.
He seemed delighted as he handed Loren the books. Only then did Loren notice a translated inscription on the back of the title page: Only the High Priest and the Copyist may read this book. All others shall be cursed.
The old man had clearly asked about Loren's work for a reason—and the answer had satisfied him.
For a moment, the man simply stared at Loren, his smile nostalgic, almost bittersweet—as if looking at a reflection of himself from centuries past.
Seeing the boy's hesitation, he softened. "Ah, forgive me. I was just remembering something long ago."
He said no more. Instead, he carefully wrapped the two books in the fur blanket and handed them over.
"That'll be thirteen pounds," he said casually.
Loren froze. He had exactly thirteen pounds. He couldn't tell if it was coincidence... or something else.
He handed over the money and took the bundle.
The old man stood, straightened his clothes, turned to leave, and called over his shoulder, "That's it, then. We'll meet again, Loren."
The boy stiffened. How did he know his name?
The old man disappeared into the crowd. Loren stared after him, wondering how he had vanished so quickly—and where the coffee cup and stool had gone. The man really did seem like a con artist from a TV drama.
He decided to treat the books like storybooks. If he didn't understand something, he wouldn't go looking for explanations.
Because in TV shows, this was always how it started: a mysterious stranger, a mysterious object, and the more you got involved, the deeper into the trap you fell.
Such people were never up to any good.
When Loren arrived at the performance hall, the show had already begun. He scanned the rows of seats and spotted Pete in the front row on the right side of the stage.
Pete saw him too and waved, calling out, "Hey! Loren! Over here! This band is awesome!"
Loren returned the greeting and took the seat beside him.
The stage was packed with long-haired male musicians—not at all the outrageous rock or hip-hop act Loren had expected. Their songs spanned genres, each performed with skill and passion. It was clearly the work of a professional band.
The musicians led the audience with energy and charm. People clapped, cheered, and laughed. Moments like this were rare in such a quiet little town.
Around Loren, the crowd chattered excitedly. Most of the songs were unfamiliar, but their style was distinct and memorable.
"This band is amazing!"
"They're totally going to release an album!"
"They're going to be famous for sure!"
A group of teenagers shouted with enthusiasm.
Loren, whose heart had been a little restless, gradually settled as he listened to the music and watched the show.
On this winter night, during this Christmas celebration, his thoughts wandered.
He missed Grandpa Bates' cheese... Sister Joyce's warm hugs... the cookies Mr. Bumble used to give him.
What did those cookies taste like again?
Loren realized that time had passed too quickly. So quickly, in fact, that he couldn't even remember what Mr. Bumble's face looked like anymore...