I have always loved wounded things, although perhaps I am the most wounded of all.
Cursed. Undying.
Undyingly lonely.
Hardly anyone comes to my manor of echoes and neglect anymore (not that many people even dwell in this spellbound place).
Only the woman comes to the gate in the morning.
Only the murderer comes to kill me in the evening.
And the boy made of intensity and silence, injuries and scars, he... well.
Come in and I'll tell you.
