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.

Harry has been a part of this town for as long as anyone can remember. The last of his generation He's a wizened old man, children growing up equally fascinated by his unchanging face and warned away by older siblings' horror stories. He doesn't let it get to him.

He has had a good life. His wife passed a few years back, after many years of happy marriage and far fewer of unhappy marriage. They had four children, all old and grey themselves, some passed on already. Grandchildren galore. And so, Harry waits. Waits for the day he will pass and be rejoined with his wife, Marna. Waits sitting out on the porch, letting the sun warm his wrinkly old face. Waits patiently, content.

Until the day the prophecy smacks him right in the noggin. And suddenly, Harry is no longer the old man forgotten by the village.

Harry is the chosen one.