Chapter 17: Whispers in the Night

The old man walked along the moonlit path, the fiddle clutched in his calloused hands. The weight of the instrument was light, but he knew it carried with it the weight of the memories of the man who had entrusted it to him. With each step, the distant sound of the wind in the trees seemed to whisper stories of people he had not yet met, of places he had not yet seen.

As the night wore on, the landscape around him began to change. The vegetation grew denser, and the sounds of the night intensified. The old man walked on, his senses heightened, until he saw a small, sleeping village in the distance. The dim lights of the lamps lit in the windows indicated that some were still awake, perhaps occupied with their own thoughts and concerns.

As he entered the village, he was greeted by curious looks. The few people who were out on the street at that hour watched the old man with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. He walked calmly, knowing that his presence would be noticed, but he was in no hurry to explain who he was or what he was doing there. Finally, he stopped in front of a small tavern, from which a warm light emanated and the sounds of laughter and conversation. The place seemed to be the heart of the village, where people gathered to share a little human warmth amidst the harshness of everyday life. The old man pushed the door open and entered. The cozy and simple atmosphere smelled of home-cooked food and burning wood. The few customers glanced at him briefly, but soon returned to their conversations. He went to the counter, where the barkeep, a burly man with a gray beard, greeted him with a nod. "What will it be, stranger?" the barkeep asked, as he wiped a glass with a worn cloth. "Whatever you have to offer," the old man replied, with a kind smile. The innkeeper nodded and quickly served a bowl of steaming stew and a mug of local ale. The old man thanked him and sat at a table in the corner, where he could observe the surroundings without being noticed. As he ate, he listened to the conversations around him. Fragments of stories, worries about the harvest, and murmurs about the distant war that seemed to be drawing ever closer. The village, like so many others, was on the verge of being dragged into a conflict it had not chosen, but which would inevitably catch up with it. The old man knew that his presence there was no coincidence. There was something that had brought him to this village, something he did not yet fully understand, but which would soon reveal itself. As he finished his meal, he felt a slight tremor in the fiddle beside him, as if the instrument was picking up the vibrations of the place, waiting to be played again.