You’ve just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As you look around, your gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. You duck and step into a tattered tent, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the tent, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town? she begins, then pauses to study your face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a cushion, “Tell me your story.” ((How do you respond?))
I could not ignore the palpable tension as I met the hag's penetrating gaze. Her words stirred a chill in me, even as the oppressive humidity clung to my skin. "You've been expecting me?" I murmured, the shadow of confusion on my face. "That's a surprise."
I followed her gesture and moved toward the cushion, an uneasy feeling of familiarity resting in my heart. I perched on the edge of the cushion, the flickering candlelight casting long, dancing shadows around the room. Her eyes bore into me, a silent demand for my tale.
"I hail from a city far beyond these swamps," I began, my gaze wandering over the tent's bizarre assortment of items. "An urban jungle, bustling, alive. But a place void of any real meaning, any depth. And so, my search began. A search for something genuine, something raw."
"The whispers of this town reached me across mountains and valleys. A place unlike any other, they said. A place that still holds the essence of life's raw, untamed beauty. And so, here I am. A wanderer from the paved roads, in your mysterious, dingy town," I concluded, looking back at her, my heart pounding with a strange anticipation.
