Prologue

The harsh northern weather shifted once more, the wind howling as thick, heavy snowflakes began to descend from a sky veiled in iron-gray clouds. In a secluded corner of a frost-bitten road, a boy lay, his small frame barely noticeable under the steadily falling snow, softly singing a melody that wove together four sorrowful tales.

The leading tale in his melody was one of profound sorrow, a gentle, muted lament that spoke of loss and absence. Snowflakes seemed to heed his mournful tune, swirling gracefully around him, as if respecting his solitude. They left a pristine patch of earth untouched, a stark contrast to the turmoil within the boy's heart.

Had there been a crowd, their voices would have risen in a collective wail, a single, anguished question echoing in the cold air: "Why?" A friend, had he not been alone, would have stood paralyzed, the words they longed to offer choked by a fear of the unspeakable pain reflected in the boy's eyes.

Anyone close by would have heard the boy speak, uttering phrases both strange and unexpected for a child to say.

Amidst his overwhelming sadness, an unusual sight could be seen. His small, chapped fingers danced across the strings of a lute, conjuring a rhythm that grew into a mesmerizing, haunting melody.

Despite fumbling occasionally, the boy played with a dreamlike detachment, creating what his father once called a "twilight melody." He remained oblivious to its haunting beauty, lost in the ethereal sound that echoed through the desolate landscape. This was the second tale, a story of a dream buried in darkness, emerging in the twilight of a fateful day.

About a dream buried in the dimness and, in irony, about his haunting rise in the eventide of this fateful day.

The third tale was subtle, almost imperceptible at first. But those who listened closely for long enough would begin to grasp its meaning, a realization that brought regret and dread.

Words forged from raw, unrestrained fury would pierce their hearts, compelling them to flee. Yet, if they chose to remain, they would do so in silence, not for lack of words but out of a deep-seated fear of confronting the boy's torment.

As long as they stood still, they believed they would be safe. They remained, not in reverence of the boy's fragile form, but because his tale gnawed at their very souls with each word, dismantling their delicate self-perceptions. They would later swear, with teeth clenched in conviction, that the image of the boy and his song was their very essence, the core of their existence.

The boy's jet-black hair, as dark as polished obsidian, stood in stark contrast to the white expanse around him. His eyes, swollen and weary, gleamed with a haunting emerald light. He moved with a quiet determination, his body tense with the unspoken resolve to defy the tragedy that had befallen him.

This fourth tale was his own — a culmination of the others, a grand tapestry of lament that wove his story into its depths.

It was as heavy as the betrayal of a loved one. It was the anguished voice of a young person, waiting to die not from illness but from a lack of the will to live.

As if answering his cries, the boy's frail body collapsed into the snow, a serpentine trail of crimson tracing its way through the pristine white. His arms lay shattered, and his feet were swollen and bruised.

A broad, dark line of blood stretched across his chest, and his once stunningly long hair was now tangled and marred with missing strands. There he lay, a solitary figure in a sea of white, lost to the world, with no one to hear his silent pleas.