Year 412. The village was gone.

  Wooden houses reduced to ashes, roofs collapsed, walls shattered, thick smoke rising into the sky. Screams pierced through the destruction, mingling with the smell of burning wood and blood.

  Graham ran among the ruins, his eyes catching the remnants of a life that had once been warm—a fireplace still smoldering, a table left behind with broken plates, Alice’s doll lying tumbled in the dirt. He remembered his parents: tired faces that always carried smiles, hands that soothed him every night, voices that guided and comforted him.

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  In the middle of his home’s wreckage, something caught his attention—a small, worn box lying among charred beams. Graham recognized the handwriting on it, the familiar strokes of his parents’ hands that he had missed for so long:

  “For you, Graham… Live, Graham. Live for both of us.”

  A lump formed in his throat, but no tears fell. His chest tightened, but behind the grief, a faint spark of determination ignited.

  He ran through what remained of the village, searching for Alice, who was crying alone among the debris. Taking her hand, Graham made a silent promise: to survive. To protect her. To endure.

  Above them, the night sky stretched wide, faint stars bearing quiet witness to that brief moment of peace. But in the distance, a terrifying shadow moved slowly. The Abyss had begun to awaken, and Graham’s life would never be the same again.