The day ochar decided to step out was the day rain fell like hell by night but the rain had ceased before dawn, leaving the town of Velharen veiled in a soft gray mist. The cobbled streets glistened faintly, carrying the echo of distant bells from the monastery across the hills. It was here, at the edge of that quiet town, that Ochar arrived—his cloak damp, his hands trembling slightly as though the earth itself still remembered who he truly was.
The painter's house stood waiting—an old cottage by the hill, covered in moss and time. To the villagers, it was the home of the late Ochar the painter, a man buried months ago under the roots of an oak tree. But to the one now walking up that path, it was more than a house.
It was a disguise.
A mask he must wear to be human again.
Inside, he lit a single candle. The flicker touched his pale face—the same face he'd crafted carefully to resemble the painter's son. His reflection in the cracked mirror stared back with weary eyes. He whispered, "From now on, I am no one else but him."
Outside, voices rose faintly. Children. Laughter.
He turned toward the window and saw Johnny for the first time—a boy of about ten, chasing after a ball that had rolled into the tall grass. Behind him came Isla, calling his name, her dress brushing against the dew. Her laughter was low, patient, and kind, though her eyes carried that soft sorrow of someone who had learned to live with loss.
When the boy stumbled near Ochar's fence, the stranger opened the gate silently and picked up the ball.
"You dropped this," he said, voice calm, deep.
Johnny blinked up, startled. "You live here?"
Ochar nodded. "Just moved in. You?"
"I'm Johnny," the boy said proudly. "And that's my mama, Isla. We live by the mill."
Isla walked closer, brushing her hair from her face. Her gaze lingered on Ochar a moment too long—as though she recognized something familiar and could not place it.
"You must be the so of ochar they spoke about," she said. "The town has missed color lately i hope you can paint like your father."
Her smile was polite but curious, and Ochar, unsure how to respond to such warmth, simply bowed his head.
"I try," he murmured. "Though I'm still finding my light."
Johnny giggled. "Mama says light comes from the heart!"
Ochar's lips twitched—almost a smile. "Then I must have forgotten mine somewhere."
They laughed, but his words hung heavy in the mist. Isla looked at him, uncertain whether it was jest or truth. Something about him—his calmness, his measured way of speaking—felt modern, far newer just like the young face he wore.
She thanked him and left with Johnny, her skirt brushing against the wet grass. But that night, when she closed her door, she found herself thinking of the stranger by the hill—the way his eyes sparkled.
~~~~~~~
The days followed quietly.
Elowen was small, full of gossip and rhythm—market chants by morning, silence by dusk. Ochar began painting again, sometimes landscapes, sometimes faces of people passing by. He never went to the tavern, never joined the laughter of men. But every now and then, Isla would come by, bringing bread or herbs from the market.
"Painters forget to eat," she said once, handing him a small loaf wrapped in cloth.
He thanked her, trying to keep distance, though the human warmth in her presence burned through the cold walls of his control.
She admired his works—canvases that glowed faintly with sorrow. One showed a woman standing near a forest's edge, her eyes lifted toward unseen stars.
"It's beautiful," Isla whispered. "Who is she?"
He hesitated. "Someone I dreamed of."
The truth was—he didn't know. The woman looked disturbingly like her.
Johnny would visit too, always with questions: "Why don't you come to the square? Why do you stay here all the time?"
Ochar would only smile. "Because some of us see better from the shadows."
At night, when the moon rose, he'd sit by the window, watching their cottage light fade in the distance. Each time, something within him stirred—the echo of what he used to be before the curse. That ache of wanting to belong.
But the beast beneath his ribs whispered differently.
Don't forget what you are.
Blood remembers.
He fought it—every time, every heartbeat—but each time Isla smiled, it felt like the curse itself trembled, unsure whether to devour or bow.
One afternoon, a sudden storm hit Elowen. The wind tore through shutters, and the rain came down in furious sheets. Ochar, working on a portrait, heard the door burst open. It was Isla—drenched, clutching Johnny's hand.
"I'm sorry," she said breathlessly. "The bridge broke—we couldn't cross the stream, and this was the only house nearby—"
He gestured quickly. "Stay. Please."
They sat by the fire, the sound of thunder rolling beyond the hills. Johnny fell asleep against the chair, his small hand gripping the hem of Ochar's cloak. Isla removed her shawl, her hair damp and glistening.
"This place feels lonely," she murmured.
"I prefer silence," he said.
"Silence can be cruel."
"So can noise."
She looked at him with a half-smile, as if seeing through his layers.
"Sometimes," she said softly, "I think we all pretend not to need others."
Ochar turned away from her gaze—it was too sharp, too kind. "Maybe," he whispered, "because needing someone makes us weak."
"No," Isla said. "It makes us human."
He didn't answer. But that night, as the storm quieted and they slept under the same roof, Ochar stood by the window, watching the rain trail down the glass. He looked back at Isla, sleeping near her child, her face peaceful in the flickering light.
He felt something impossible stir in his chest—a warmth that wasn't hunger. A longing that wasn't dark.
And for the first time in years, Ochar prayed—not to gods, nor demons—but to silence itself.
That it might let him stay.