By the ti Amon stood before the village again. It was the next day.
The sa wooden houses. The sa thin smoke rising lazily into the sky. The sa neat fences.
The sa people moving about their lives. Not a single thing had changed.
Amon stood silently at the edge of the trees, staring at the settlent that had mocked him with its impossible existence.
A loop. No matter which direction he walked. He returned to the sa places. To this village. Or to that leafless tree.
Over and over again. This ti, however, he would not walk past it.
This ti he would step inside and seek answers.
Vetaal remained invisible, his presence barely noticeable now.
"You plan to talk?" the unseen voice murmured near Amon’s ear.
"Yes," Amon replied calmly. "If this is a trap, then it’s a persistent one. Running blindly won’t help anymore. I tried if there is any chance to get out. But now i should try talking with them."
"And you trust them?" Vetaal asked.
"I don’t. Not yet," Amon answered. "But information is information." With that, he stepped forward.
Once again, he entered the village. The packed dirt road crunched beneath his boots. People noticed him imdiately.
Conversations softened. Their eyes turned.
A group of children paused mid-play. An elderly woman stopped sweeping her doorstep.
So looked curious. So cautious. So... expectant. But no one was hostile towards him. Which was a good sign for him.
Amon felt it clearly. They were not surprised to see him. As if they had seen him before or...they are used for see such sight.
As if they knew he would co back. He ignored the stares and walked deeper into the settlent.
He was about to approach a man standing near a cart. When a calm voice ca from his right.
"Young man."
Amon turned to that voice. The speaker was a man in his late fifties.
He was tall, more than six feet. Having broader, with heavy shoulders that hinted at strength not yet faded by age. His skin was deeply tanned, weathered by sun and years of labor.
White hair frad his face, cut short and practical, though thick eyebrows of the sa color still carried intensity.
His face bore wrinkles not of weakness, but of experience. Fine lines at the corners of his eyes suggested soone who had both smiled often and endured much.
His eyes were sharp. He was observant. Not the eyes of a simple villager.
He wore a dark brown tunic made of coarse fabric, fitted but simple. A thick leather belt wrapped around his waist, from which hung a small pouch and a worn knife sheath.
His trousers were sturdy, tucked neatly into heavy boots stained with soil. Over his shoulders rested a faded gray cloak, clasped with a plain iron brooch.
A working man’s attire. But the way he stood. It was Straight-backed. He was balanced.
Spoke of sothing more.
"You might have already guessed it," the man continued calmly, "that this place is like a loop."
Amon’s eyes narrowed slightly. The man’s lips curved faintly.
"Getting out of here is impossible. No matter how much you walk... you only move in a circle."
Silence lingered between them.
Amon studied him carefully. ’He knows...they all knows...are they all like ? Lost in this place?’
There was no mockery in his tone. No deception in his expression. Only quiet understanding.
Amon gave a small nod. "Yes," he replied. "I confird it yesterday."
The man smiled slightly wider.
"Good. Saves ti explaining. It was also one of the reason no one tried to stop you yesterday. Rather than we explaining you..its better if you experience it yourself."
He extended his hand. "My na is Roland."
His grip, when Amon accepted it, was firm and steady.
"Amon," he replied.
Roland’s brows lifted faintly. "You got good na."
"That obvious?" Amon joked.
Roland chuckled softly. "Everyone here knows everyone else. When soone new appears. It takes tis to get mix with them."
"Guess so." Amon said with a small smile.
"Co," Roland said. "Standing in the middle of the road is not ideal for conversations like this."
Amon hesitated only briefly before nodding. Roland turned and began walking deeper into the village.
Amon followed.
Villagers resud their activities, though so continued to glance at him from the corners of their eyes.
As they walked, Amon observed everything carefully.
The buildings were well maintained. The wood freshly treated. No signs of decay.
Tools were in good condition. Nothing looked much abandoned.
’For how long this people were living here?’
Nothing looked desperate. After a short walk, Roland stopped in front of a modest house.
It was slightly larger than the surrounding ones, though built in the sa style. Dark wooden planks ford its walls. The roof was steep and neatly layered with treated shingles. A small porch stood at the entrance, supported by thick beams.
"This is my house," Roland said simply. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Amon followed. The interior was clean and orderly.
The scent of polished wood lingered faintly in the air.
Roland led him into what was clearly the living room.
Everything inside was crafted from black wood dense and heavy. The table at the center was solid, rectangular, polished smooth but without ornantation.
Chairs were sturdy and angular. Cabinets lined one wall, their surfaces carved with simple geotric patterns.
There were no soft sofas. No cushioned furniture. No decorative fabrics.
Everything was practical. They were hard, minimal.
Roland walked to one side of the table and gestured.
"Sit."
Amon pulled a chair back and sat down. The wood was firm beneath him.
Roland sat opposite him. For a mont, neither spoke.
The room felt still. Then Roland leaned forward slightly, folding his hands atop the table.
"You’ve already tested everything," he said calmly.
Amon t his gaze. "Yes."
Roland nodded slowly. "Then we can speak honestly."
Outside, the village noises continued faintly. But inside that black-wood room. The atmosphere felt entirely different.
It was heavier and serious.
And for the first ti since entering this cursed place. Amon felt that he might finally hear sothing real.
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