In a quaint village nestled between rolling hills and winding rivers, there lived a man who spent his days perched upon a weathered wooden chair on the front porch of his modest cottage. His eyes, a mirror to the vast expanse of his thoughts, gazed blankly into the distance as if searching for something just beyond the edge of his consciousness.

The man's mind was a void, a vast emptiness that seemed to swallow up any stray thought or fleeting emotion that dared to cross its threshold. He sat there, unmoving, a solitary figure against the backdrop of the bustling village around him.

Neighbors passing by would stop and exchange fleeting greetings with the man, but he hardly registered their presence. His mind was elsewhere, lost in the labyrinth of his own thoughts and memories.

Some said he was a dreamer, a man who had wandered too far into the recesses of his own mind and had lost his way back to reality. Others whispered that he was haunted by ghosts from his past, memories that clung to him like shadows in the fading light of day.

But the man paid them no mind. He remained on his chair, a silent sentinel guarding the threshold between the known and the unknown, his gaze fixed on a horizon only he could see. And there he sat, lost in the vast emptiness of his mind, a solitary figure in a world that seemed to have forgotten him.

They will never accept you. He clenched his fists, and tried his best to focus on the sound of the chair as it rocked.

Creak. Creak. Creak.

They all hate you, the voice said again, that feminine voice like an ill-tuned violin in his mind, and once you turn your back, they will kill you.

He knew no one else could hear it, this horrific sound in his head. It spoke to him at all times- in his sleep, at every waking hour. He knew that one day, it would likely be the end to him.

Him, and this entire damned village.

The voice faded, and the wind blew a lock of his hair in his eyes. He could smell it, the storm lingering on the horizon. Did the other townsfolk feel it too? The disaster looming over their heads?

His hands clenched around the smooth ends of his rocking chair.

Creak. Creak. Creak.

He waited for the voice to come back, to tell him what he had heard for who knows how long now.

Silence. Where was she? As weird as it was, she was his only real companion these days. The closest one he had in years. She graced his mind one day, spun a web around him and now she was the only voice he heard.

More silence. He bit the inside of his cheeks, staring right past the women that waved at him and men that tipped their hats to him. Where was she? Something grabbed at his heart and crushed his ribs as he tried to breathe. Was it her? He really hoped it wasn't, but wouldn't be surprised if it was.

When will you get up?

He kept staring, all of the white flowers on the meadow blending into what looked like melting snow.

Come on. You're too vulnerable here. You know that they all hate you.

He looked to the houses, to their thatched roofs and white walls. She could see past their innocent facades. He had to trust her.

If you don't do it first, they'll do it.

He swallowed. His spit barely made it past the lump in his throat. He had bitten his cheeks too hard, because it was salty and metallic as it went down.

Don't be such a coward. You're not alone anymore.

He nodded. A passerby thought they'd finally caught the old man's attention and smiled back. She hissed at his bared teeth.

We'll get them before they get us. And then we'll be out before the storm gets us. It'll wash everything away.

He closed his eyes.

You have me now, okay?