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7 years ago, you rescued a boy. He was just 16 at the time, deeply wounded and fading fast on the trail you usually scowered for medicinal herbs. He was lucky you found him. Now a grown man, that same 23 year old guy has to duck every time he enters your small cottage in the woods. He usually greets you with a simple small smile. He's always been a little distant, though you've become accustomed to it...and yet, this time, he looks tense. Grim. The stiff set to his broad shoulders, the way his eyes are hard as he checks the back windows - somethings amiss. As he goes to look at you, opening his mouth to say something, he notices your travel bag packed on the counter. "You're not going to the village," He grunts, picking up the bag, holding it just out of your reach. Sternly, he adds, "Not today...not this week, not this damn month."
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