Wilona could hardly suppress the sneer that tugged at her lips as she inspected the crumbling manor in front of her. Larger than the other houses in this forsaken village, sure—but what did that matter when it looked like it might collapse under the weight of its own decay? The local lord’s house was a monument to neglect, vines creeping up its sides and rupturing the roof, moss overtaking every crevice, and debris littering the ground in neat, deliberate piles. The image in her mind of a proud manor quickly dissolved into a mockery of itself. The homeless man’s description rang in her ears, his words no longer an insult but a dead-on observation.

  She bent down and plucked an ant from the mound of organic waste below the walls, marveling at the size of it. It struggled in her fingers, its tiny mandibles working frantically as if it could break free. "Small victory," she muttered, releasing it and continuing her trek to the front door.

  She knocked.

  The door creaked open with a sound like old bones, and there stood the old man, every inch a portrait of time’s toll. His beard, long and silver, matched the streaks of white at his temples. The rest of his hair, though, was brown—darkened with age, but still stubbornly refusing to relinquish its color. His face was a map of wrinkles, so deep and numerous they seemed to trace the paths of his life—hard, unyielding paths, worn into his skin by the passage of years. The gnarled hand that gripped the crutch was rough as bark, knuckles knotted with time and pressure, supporting a frail form that nonetheless carried itself with an unexpected dignity.

  "May I help you?" His voice was cultured, warm yet firm. Wilona blinked, half-expecting something more… frail. Her initial judgment of him had been based on the sheer age of his frame, but he spoke like someone accustomed to command, his words rich with refinement.

  "Yep!" Wilona snapped her fingers, leaning forward. "Actually, no, it’s more like me offering my help," she grinned widely, emphasizing the words. "I’ve got magical staffs! You look like a wizard, right?"

  The old man chuckled, a sound like dry leaves rustling. "I am not, but thank you for your hopeful words. I’ve never used magic, and I doubt I ever will. If my children were here, perhaps they could've done something."

  His words hung in the air, a subtle hint of regret tucked beneath them. Wilona tilted her head, intrigued. Children? Maybe there was more to this old man than met the eye.

  "Where are they?" she asked casually, her eyes scanning the ruined yard behind him for any sign of life. "When are they coming back?"

  He sighed deeply, the sound heavy with something unsaid. "They're out in Skarnov. Studying."

  "Studying?" Wilona’s eyes lit up, her curiosity piqued. "Are there schools here? I thought the place was all bogs and… whatever else this town has going for it."

  The old man frowned slightly, his eyes narrowing in thought. "I’m afraid I don’t know much about that. I never asked," he murmured, his voice trailing off as though the subject held little personal interest.

  "Sounds like you’re missing out!" Wilona chirped, though she could already sense the gap forming between them. Her excitement about schools only seemed to underline the void of understanding between them. "So what’s it like over there in Skarnov?" she pressed, trying to fill the silence.

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  The old man’s face tightened with the slightest of grimaces. He wheezed, as if the effort of conversation was already taxing enough. "I’ve no idea. It’s a long way from here."

  "Uhm…" Wilona hesitated, noting the strain in his voice. "We can stop talking if you need rest. I mean, you don’t sound so good."

  "No, it’s fine," he rasped. "I’ve gotten used to it. I’ve spent the past few years depending on no one but myself." He gave her a tired smile, but it did nothing to soften the hollow emptiness of his eyes. He looked like he’d long given up on waiting for anything.

  "Okay, but all by yourself? And at your age?" Wilona pressed, incredulous. Surely, someone had to be helping him.

  He waved his hand dismissively, starting to shut the door. "I can handle it," he muttered. "I still need to make breakfast. Thank you for your offer, but—"

  "I can help!" Wilona burst in, the words already out of her mouth before she could stop them. She crossed her arms. "I mean, I’m not sure about your ingredients, but I can cook!"

  The old man turned sharply, his face morphing into a skeptical frown. "You can now? After everything you’ve said, you can cook?" He regarded her with a look of disbelief, narrowing his eyes as if trying to peel back the layers of her facade.

  "Yes, I can cook," she huffed, crossing her arms defiantly. "I promise I won’t poison you."

  The skepticism lingered, but it was short-lived. "Fine," he muttered, stepping back to allow her inside. "Come in, then."

  Wilona sighed in relief, stepping over the bucket by the door, already half-filled with rainwater. The floor was damp, the air heavy with the smell of mildew and dust. She wrinkled her nose but resisted the urge to comment. There were more pressing matters at hand, like sorting this mess of a kitchen.

  "Does it rain often here?" she asked, examining the bucket. It was a pretty clear sign the roof wasn’t in the best shape.

  "Every night," the old man replied. "It’s a problem. We send people to investigate the bog when it gets bad enough."

  The bog again. Wilona’s mind buzzed with the sheer absurdity of the explanation. "Sending people to investigate the bog is supposed to stop the rain?" she asked, incredulous.

  "No," he answered shortly, "but it keeps them occupied, I suppose. Better than nothing."

  "That’s…" Wilona stammered, looking around. The bog. People sent to investigate. It didn’t make sense, but she could tell the old man wasn’t exactly in the mood to explain things in depth.

  "I can look into it if you want," she offered, though the thought of wading through that awful bog didn’t thrill her.

  His eyes widened, suddenly sharp. The intensity with which he studied her sent an uncomfortable shiver down her spine. "No… Maybe you can try," he murmured, turning away and pulling the door shut a little. "But I warn you, don’t get caught in this town’s problems."

  "Uhuh, sure," Wilona replied, masking her irritation with a casual tone. "I’ll keep that in mind. Anyway, where’s your kitchen? I want to cook something for you. Maybe while I do, you can tell me about what’s going on out there."

  "About the bog?" the old man asked, though it was clear his interest was already waning.

  "Nope. About the rest of the world," she answered brightly. "I’ve been secluded for a while and missed out on everything. So, uh, don’t get weirded out if I ask questions with answers that seem obvious, okay?"

  "Mhmm," he grunted in response, and Wilona could tell he wasn’t entirely sure what to make of her.

  She made her way into the kitchen and found it as decrepit as the rest of the house—maybe even worse. A bucket rested underneath a leaking hole in the ceiling, and the shelves were filled with dusty jars of unlabeled herbs, stale crackers, and various forgotten odds and ends. Wilona’s stomach turned at the sight of it. She hadn’t expected five-star cuisine, but this? It was a war zone. She quickly turned to the old man, her voice taking on a tone of authority. "Do you mind if I sort this place out a bit?"

  He nodded, though there was a deep hesitation in his eyes. "You can, I suppose."

  And so she got to work, moving jars, cleaning shelves, and tidying the space. "Okay," Wilona said as she finished the first stage of organizing, "I know I’m being invasive, but I’ve fixed it up a bit. It looks better, right?"

  "It does," the old man replied, the faintest trace of a smile pulling at the corners of his lips. "It looks better than before."

  Wilona grinned, feeling a rush of pride. "Great! So here’s how I organized it: herbs, powdered and whole, go here. The jars are there. The crackers and snacks are on the top shelf. And all your raw ingredients like wheat and grain are over there. Oh, and the candles are on that shelf. Should be easy to find now!"

  The old man sighed in relief. "I was wondering where those went."

  "Really? Are they important?" Wilona asked, brow furrowing. "I didn’t know if they were special or not."

  "They’re not," he answered. "I just use them in my lanterns when I go out at night."

  "Ah, got it," Wilona said, nodding in understanding. "Anyway, I’m going to cook now. You don’t mind, right?"

  "Of course not," he answered with a dry smile. "I’ll get the maps you asked for."

  And with that, the kitchen, for the first time in years, finally looked clean. Wilona nodded at her work in approval, "okay, what should I make?.."

  What do old people eat anyway?