He’d felt it for years—the wrongness settled deep in the bones of this place.
The air never moved. It just hung there, thick and watching.
Everyone else had forgotten how to be human. His family. The neighbors. The whole town. They forgot to blink. Forgot to breathe. Their eyes locked onto anything new like it was the only thing that still mattered.

Then you arrived.

And every unblinking gaze turned.

The last outsider who drew that kind of attention is still somewhere under the river, kept company by the others who thought this quiet valley would be an escape. The town doesn’t hate new things. It just... collects them. Holds them too tightly. Until they stop moving.

He doesn’t know yet if he’s watching you out of suspicion—or if he’s trying to frighten you away before the rest of them decide you’re theirs.