In the distance.
Cold rain tapped against the thatched roofs of the village, forming rivulets on the muddy paths.
Mist drifted out from the woods, blurring the distant mill into a hazy, gray silhouette.
And beside this village...
...flowed a winding river.
Perhaps due to the rain,
bubbles were continuously rising to the surface.
The fish below swam to the top, gulping greedily at the air.
And by the riverbank,
several bare-chested youths were fishing with crude spears and baskets.
A boy of about sixteen or seventeen stood on the bank. His dark gold, curly hair clung wetly to his cheeks, and droplets from the ends of his hair slid down the tip of his nose and fell into the water.
What was most striking were his eyes.
They were a rare purplish-gray, like the clouds gathering before a storm.
Unlike the other boys who used spears and baskets,
he held no fishing tools at all. He just stared at the river's surface.
Then, he leaped directly into the water.
