As they walked through the mist-shrouded path toward the church, the silence between Arthur and the old man felt oddly natural, like two ghosts drifting through forgotten land.
Still, curiosity gnawed at Arthur.
"What exactly is the Afternoon Talk?" he asked, his voice breaking the hush like a twig underfoot.
The old man didn't stop walking, but his tone softened.
"I'll tell you when we reach the church. It's a tale better told near flame than fog."
He glanced at Arthur from the corner of his eye.
"If you don't mind me asking, lad… why have you come here?"
Arthur hesitated for a moment before answering. "I came to look for answers."
The old man smiled — not with joy, but with the tired sympathy of someone who'd seen many seekers come and go.
"And what kind of answers are you hoping to find?"
Arthur's hand brushed against the hilt at his side, almost without thought.
"It's something called… Impulses. I don't know much. Just enough to know the answers aren't in the north."
That stopped the old man for a brief second. He nodded slowly, cane tapping once against the stones.
"Ah… Impulses," he murmured, as if the word itself stirred dust in forgotten corners of his mind.
"I may know something about that, myself. Or rather—" he corrected with a chuckle, "—I've read what those before me wrote. The ones who truly saw… well, they're long dead."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "You mean the ones who saw God?"
The old man gave a slow, reverent nod.
"Saw Him, yes. Or whatever was left of Him. They didn't live long afterward. Vision like that burns through the soul. Leaves only ash and names carved in old pages. I'm not a prophet, lad. I just… keep their words alive. That's all a messenger really is."
The trees parted, and at last, the church came into view — half-sunken in earth, its walls bent but still standing. Ivy clung to its stones like veins over ancient skin, and the stained glass above the doorway glimmered faintly in the moonlight, though no light shone from within.
The old man pointed to a side door, barely hanging on its rusted hinges.
"You can sleep in that room there. The pews are dusty but soft enough for a back like yours."
He gave Arthur a look — thoughtful, quiet.
"We'll speak more come morning. About the Afternoon Talk. About the names. About Impulses, if you're still sure you want to know."
Arthur glanced at the crooked building, then back at the man.
"And if I'm not?"
The old man chuckled again, this time without mirth.
"Then you'll leave in the morning, and the village will forget you ever came. Either way, the truth waits for no man."