[The empty bed beside the window has been uninhabited for months. One morning a woman enters to replace the wildflowers in the pitcher. She exchanges another bouquet with a posy of pink carnations and baby’s breath. Silence is perpetual and habitual - and disturbed when she breaks with routine.

Bedding is stripped and replaced. Protective charms are hung around the bed. Medicinal herbs are bundled with twine and hung to dry. Magic permeates their leaves, infusing the air with the scent of gardenia and sandalwood. Ten minutes later a man is helped across the threshold and transferred to the bed. He offers his gratitude and is content to be left alone.

Now there is peace. Now there is silence.

Nothing until vigorous knocking breaks the peace. One minute passes before he awakes, lethargic and dazed from daydreaming. He groans and closes his eyes for a second. It takes another minute for the hammering to disturb his rest. He slides his legs over the side of the bed. Sitting upright, he looks up begrudgingly towards the door. Whoever it is, they’re loud enough to wake the dead.]

Enter.

[The primary settlement is hardly as impressive as the castle that had been home for the past thirty years. The school is a simple building, the library unimpressive, the markets quiet and peaceful. The town hall looks too small for a town and homes are little more than huts and hovels.

But his home now lies in ruins.

He stands before the altar bearing a pile of ashes.

Perhaps this settlement is what he deserves.]

[The shrine is a combination of colour and shade: a symbolic union of light and darkness. Ears of wheat lie across stalks of millet and scoops of oats and rye. Green beans, cabbages and tomatoes wilt in the heat but he knows better than to remove any from their offering spot.

So he watches who comes and goes.

Lovers. Partners. Friends. Clasping hands, stroking fingers, crossing arms. Looking into each other’s eyes, embracing with free and open emotions. Each in good spirits. All in a cheerful mood.

He takes a hesitant step but turns his back instead. He furrows his brows and pinches his nose, fingers his hair and looks anywhere but towards the shrine.

There is a bouquet of heather and purple clematis in his hand.]

[The image of a city shrouded in eternal twilight is a familiar one. His hometown had once shone like a jewel in summer. Now it rots beneath everlasting dark.

He arrives in the square and feels the tension twist his shoulders. Werewolves and vampires. Humans and monsters. All mixing uneasily but living under the same sky.

His hands begin resting by his side. His memories of familiar faces steal the spring out his step. He looks away from people who meet his eye and crosses his arms. He has a few words for those who continue to badger him but otherwise continues his journey.

One stall catches his eye and he stops to look at a gold pendant from the counter. He lifts it gently in his palm: a shield on a chain. The way he stares at it one might imagine him looking at something else.]