The town of Lin was an old, modest settlement, resting in the cradle of green hills and surrounded by a web of dirt paths that carried traders, travelers, and wanderers through its market square. It was a place where the seasons passed quietly, where gossip was more often about harvests than about people, and where strangers rarely stayed long. The townsfolk were used to predictable rhythms. The blacksmith hammering metal at dawn, the baker’s aroma drifting through the cobblestone streets, children chasing one another near the wells, and elders sitting under the shade of the old fig tree telling half-forgotten tales.
But one day, a stranger appeared, and with him, the rhythm of Lin began to falter. He came with no cart, no pack animal, and no luggage that anyone could see. He was tall and thin, with skin pale as wax and eyes that seemed to take in more than what was in front of him. His hair, dark and streaked with silver, fell to his shoulders. He carried only a weathered leather-bound book and a cane carved with symbols no one recognized. Without introducing himself, he walked straight to the town center, settled on a bench near the old fig tree, and began to speak.
At first, the townspeople ignored him. Strangers sometimes passed through — merchants, beggars, wandering performers and the people of Lin had learned that paying too much attention to outsiders was a quick way to lose either money or patience. But the stranger’s voice was not the kind you could easily ignore. It was deep yet gentle, flowing like the river after a spring rain, each word carrying weight. His first tale was about a fisherman who one morning cast his net into the river and pulled out a golden fish that could speak. The fish granted the man three wishes, but the fisherman, in his humility, asked for nothing but enough food to last the winter. By evening, the fisherman’s storehouse overflowed with grain and smoked meat, and his family never went hungry again.
It was a pleasant story, told with such vivid detail that those who listened could almost smell the river water and hear the fish’s strange voice. The next day, one of Lin’s real fishermen — a quiet, aging man named Taren — stumbled upon a section of the river that was unusually full of large, healthy fish. He returned home with his nets bursting, enough to feed his family for weeks. The coincidence was whispered about but soon dismissed as just that — coincidence.
Then came the second tale. It was about a young woman who found an abandoned basket of ripe fruit outside her door. She shared it with her neighbors, and the very next day, a merchant from the capital offered her a well-paid position in his household. By evening, everyone in Lin had heard the story. The following morning, a woman named Lysa found a bundle of fresh pears at her doorstep. By the week’s end, she had been invited to work for the town’s wealthiest family, a job that came with generous pay.
After the third story came true — a boy rescuing a stray dog that later saved him from a runaway cart — people began to take the stranger seriously. Some said he was a fortune teller. Others claimed he was blessed by the gods. A few muttered darker theories: that he was a witch, a demon, or worse. But most people, drawn by the promise of fortune, began to gather daily to hear his next tale.
For a while, his stories were warm, filled with love, luck, and prosperity. Each one singled out someone in the crowd by name.
“Maren,”
He would say,
“tomorrow you will find a silver coin in the dust.”
Or,
“Hale, keep your eyes open at the marketplace; a gift is waiting for you.”
And each time, the prediction came true, just as told. Smiles and laughter spread through Lin. People began offering the stranger gifts — bread, blankets, even a small carved stool to sit on. Children brought him wildflowers. In those first weeks, the air around him was filled with gratitude. But then, without warning, the tone of his tales changed.
One cold morning, he opened his book and told a story of a farmer named Joren, who fell ill after a sudden frost destroyed his crops. In the story, Joren lingered for weeks, unable to work, until finally he succumbed to his sickness. The crowd’s mood shifted uneasily. They laughed it off as fiction — until the next week, when the real Joren, a well-liked farmer in Lin, came down with a fever after an unexpected frost. His health rapidly declined, and within a month, he was gone.
The people tried to dismiss it as tragic coincidence, but the storyteller’s next tale left little room for doubt. He spoke of a young man named Cedric, who lost his sight after being struck by a hawk while working in the fields. Three days later, Cedric was brought into the square, his eyes bandaged, after a hawk, startled from a tree, clawed his face. The wound left him blind in one eye.
After that, the stranger’s stories became darker, each more cruel than the last. They were never vague. He used real names, described their homes, their families, even the clothing they were wearing that very day. And every time, his words became reality — an injury, an accident, a terrible loss. Fear gripped the town. People stopped smiling in his presence. Some avoided the square entirely. Yet others kept coming, terrified to miss a story that might involve them or someone they loved.
Rumors spread like wildfire. Some said he was a demon feeding off misfortune. Others whispered he was a prophet cursed to speak truths that harmed as often as they helped. No one dared confront him at first; they feared that angering him might earn them a place in his next tale.
Finally, one autumn evening, after a particularly cruel story about a child’s disappearance came true, the fear turned into fury. A mob gathered — men, women, even some of the town elders — carrying torches and tools that could be used as weapons. They marched to the square, where the storyteller sat under the fig tree, reading silently from his book.
“Leave this town,”
One of the elders demanded, his voice shaking.
“We’ve had enough of your poison.”
The stranger did not respond. He turned a page slowly, as though he hadn’t heard. A younger man stepped forward, shoving the storyteller’s stool. “Did you hear him? We don’t want you here!”
Still, there was no answer. At last, the stranger closed his book with a sound like the crack of ice. He stood, taller than most had realized, his shadow stretching long in the torchlight. He looked over the crowd, and for a heartbeat, it seemed as though his eyes rested on each person individually. Then, without a word, he turned and walked away. His cane tapped softly against the cobblestones. No one followed him. They watched as his figure grew smaller, swallowed by the dark streets, and finally vanished.
That night, the town felt unnervingly quiet. There was no gathering in the square, no murmurs of what tomorrow might bring. People stayed inside, doors locked, shutters closed. When morning came, the square was empty save for the old fig tree and the carved stool the storyteller had left behind.
For days, the people waited, half expecting him to return. A strange calm settled over Lin. There were no new accidents, no sudden illnesses, no odd coincidences. It was as though the shadow that had been looming over the town had lifted. Yet, beneath the relief, there lingered an unease that no one dared speak aloud.
What if his departure was not the end of the story? What if it was only the beginning of another?
Some avoided the thought entirely, returning to their daily lives with forced smiles. But others swore they had seen him in the reflection of a shop window, at the edge of the fields at dusk, in the flicker of a candle’s flame. The leather-bound book, they whispered, was not gone, and neither was he. Perhaps he was still telling stories, just not where they could hear them. Perhaps their lives were still being written, one page at a time.
And perhaps, one day soon, he would return to read the ending aloud.
