The little seaside town of Marelin was cloaked in a peculiar hush that late autumn morning. The air was crisp but heavy with anticipation, as if the salt-stained wind carried secrets too heavy to bear. At the heart of the town square, amid cobblestone streets still slick with dew, a peculiar figure emerged—a woman cloaked in a jade-green coat and carrying an even stranger object: a watering can covered in faded golden etchings.

Her name was Eleanor Graye, a newcomer no older than thirty-five, with sharp eyes that seemed to see through people before they had a chance to speak. The townsfolk, already suspicious of outsiders, whispered about her beneath their thick scarves as she wandered from shop to shop that morning, seemingly seeking something—or someone. But what truly captured their curiosity was her watering can. It was dented but regal, its faint designs depicting what looked like constellations, an owl, and a crescent moon. Certainly nothing they had ever seen in Marelin.

By the time Eleanor entered Finnigan’s Tavern, every rumor imaginable had spread like wildfire—treasures buried in the dunes, spells that could conjure storms, even a secret game that only the truly brave could play. Unfazed by the eyes that followed her, she settled into the dimly lit corner of the room, where only the embers from the fireplace illuminated her face. Finnigan, a broad bartender with a booming laugh, sauntered over.

“Tea, please,” she said, placing the watering can gently on the table as though it were brittle as glass. “And… do you sell firewood?”

Finnigan cleaned his hands with the hem of his stained apron, curious but wary. “We do, but you’d get better prices from Sawyer at the timber yard. It’s not a thing we stock much of this close to winter.”

Eleanor smiled faintly. “Sawyer, then. Thank you.”

Her tea arrived, and she drank it slowly, methodically, clearly stalling. It was when a boy—no older than ten—entered the scene that the mood shifted. He had bright red hair and freckles that nearly glowed under Marelin’s dim lamps. No one seemed to know his name; he simply appeared a few days prior, wandering the beaches and kicking up sand like he was looking for something.

Spotting the watering can, his eyes grew impossibly wide.

“Where did you get that?” he blurted, running to her table without a shred of hesitation. His voice didn’t match his tiny frame; it was commanding, like the child was more than he appeared.

Startled murmurs rippled through the room as Eleanor leaned back, much cooler than her reactionless audience. “Do you know what this is?”

“I do,” the boy said solemnly, squeezing his fists together. “You can’t trust her!” he suddenly shouted to the crowd around him, as though warning them of an invisible predator. “It’s part of the game! She’s trying to win!”

“What game?” Eleanor’s eyes narrowed, but beneath her calm, there was a flicker of unease. She leaned in closer, her face inches from the boy’s. “What do you know?”

The air went cold.

“When you find it and leave it with her, it starts,” the boy whispered. “That can isn’t rare because it waters. It’s rare because it takes.”

“Takes what?” Eleanor’s voice barely cracked. But when no answer came, she realized the boy’s freckled face was frozen with fear. Not of her. Of the watering can. It glimmered faintly now, something neither she nor the boy had noticed when she took it.

Finnigan edged closer, clearly feeling the strange tension buzzing through the room. “Alright, alright. Let’s calm down now. Lad, Eleanor’s just new around here. No need to yell. And ma’am, you’re giving these folks a bit of a fright. Why not—”

A faint scream interrupted them, echoing from the shore outside. Everyone fell silent. Eleanor rose, gripping the watering can tightly. The boy tugged at her sleeve frantically, but before he could say more, she stormed out into the cold night air, the can glowing brighter as she vanished into the mist.

None of the patrons ever saw her—or the boy—again.

Months later, a traveler found an etching on the rocks by the shore. It was faint but eerily familiar: a crescent moon, an owl, and faraway constellations. Beneath it was scrawled one word: Begin.