Păduriceni was a little village at the edge of a large mountain range where legends and myths still thrived, and people tended to believe old folk tales over logic and common sense. It was so small, it hardly appeared on any map, and the road leading to it were not welcoming, the steep and narrow roads making it difficult for one to come and go as they pleased. The residents were mostly old people, but seldom, a young family would come and stay for the summer, eager to be away from the noise and pollution of the city. Each house was fenced by tall, wooden walls, besides which there were benches surrounded by large bushes of flowers and fruit-bearing trees. Overall, it was a very common, and old, picturesque Central-European village, where nothing ever happened, and few things ever changed. Even the cats seemed to be still the same, sunbathing in the exact same spots he always saw them in as a child.
James didn't know what to think, what to feel, as he walked the same unchanged roads, up to his childhood home. He never believed he would be back here, that day, 15 years ago making him think he was never going to set foot in the village again. He still remembered how he walked out the door, with nothing but the clothes on his back and a small luggage to house his belongings. Olaf awaited him outside, with a sad smile on his face and a hand outstretched to welcome him, while behind him, his parents acted as nothing was happening, his siblings the only ones who even bothered to acknowledge what was going on, what this departure meant. There had been no screaming, no tears, no pleas for second changes nor forgiveness, nothing. It had been a sad day, soul-crushing even, but nobody was showing it. He recalled the looks from the neighbors and the sound of their voices as they gossiped about him and the foreigner while they passed through the narrow streets on their way out. Hurtful words made their way to his ears, but he paid them no mind. He long learned to ignore the chat of those who barely had any influence on his life. But for some reason, his heart ached that time and though he cared not for what was said, the words somehow made their way into his chest, and nested there for years to come.
Now, the same neighbors watched him stroll those roads again, letting long whistles in his wake. It was almost as if they never left those benches, and had always been there, waiting for him to return, eyes eager to judge what had become of the black sheep. A silly thought, but there was no harm in a little foolishness now and again.
"Oh my!" one old man screamed when he saw the youngster approach. "Jamie, is that you? I can't believe this! Oi, Aurica! Come out! You must see this!" he called out to his wife, before shifting his attention back to the young man who was now barely one meter away from him. "Look at you! Finally decided to remember the hole you crawled out from, eh? If that's the case, I hope you did well and left whatever high airs you got wherever you went, cuz here, they don't work." the old man laughed. "Oi, Aurica! Where the hell are you woman? I told you to come out!"
"I'm glad to see you are doing fine, Mr. Ionescu." James greeted the neighbor, genuinely surprised at how well the man had aged. "I hope you and the Mrs. are doing well."
As a young man, Petru Ionescu was a tall, muscular man from a lifetime of working the fields. Even now, as an old man, he had not lost his figure, though he did put on a few kilos. He had short, white, curly hair, with dark eyes and a crocked nose. He was sitting down, leaning forward, and using a cane to support himself. He and his wife, Aurica, had lived net to his family since before he was born, and had been good friends with his parents. They had one child, Antonio, who married his older sister, Helena, a few years ago and moved to France, looking for a better life. The couple had treated every child in the (L/N) family, even him, well, and were some of the few people in the village who didn't shun him for his weirdness.
"Eh. It's ok. Could have been better but that's that." the old man answered, studying James once more.
He had turned out fine when it came to looks, tall and lean, with the beginning of a dark mustache complimenting his upper lip. He had the same black eyes with a sharp intelligence gleaming through as his father, and his father's father, ready to glimpse into the unknown and witness things most should not. His hair was long, almost reaching his shoulders, slightly curled at the edges, something he inherited from his mother. He was wearing a white, plain shirt beneath a bluish, wool coat and a pair of brown trousers. He didn't look at all like the boy he had once been, dirty all day long and dressed in rags and clothes much too big for him. Now, he looked like a proper young man, with an education and the manners of high society.
