In the drowned alleys of the ruined city of Brimvale, where soot rains down like ash and children's laughter hasn't echoed in years, a soft hum lingers in the fog. It drifts through broken windows, over rusted lamp posts, and down into the hollow bones of those trying to sleep.
A lullaby.
Low. Raspy. Wrong.
They say if you hear the Ragman’s lullaby, it’s already too late.
Talia Grimm crouched beneath a collapsed archway, her fingers ink-stained and cold. The mute girl had been sketching the same figure for days—long coat made of stitched doll parts, a bag of rattling bones, and a face hidden behind scraps of flesh and sewn-on buttons.
She didn’t know who the Ragman was.
Not until the others began to disappear.
First it was Mara, the scavenger with the tin whistle. Then Old Clem, who slept with a rosary in his teeth. Each vanished without a trace—except for a piece of torn cloth left where they last slept.
And that song.
Always that song.