Godless Souls

Chapter 1: Memories at the bottom of a glass

Sometimes, when you stare into the void, you might notice a spark within—a glimmer that could evolve into a spot, gradually unraveling into colors, shapes, and truths nestled within your mind, waiting for a blank enough canvas to manifest themselves.

Draven, plagued by an inexplicable sadness, found himself spiraling in these abstract thoughts as he drowned his sorrows in liquor at the local tavern. The owner, a man of keen observation and a heart worn on his sleeve, cast a look toward Draven, a blend of pity and concern etching his features.

With a well-worn rag and a glass that had seen better days, the owner approached, feigning nonchalance. Draven, a regular patron whose presence was as predictable as the sunset, braced for the usual soliloquy, his gaze sinking into the dark abyss of his drink.

"You know," the owner began, his voice tinged with a fatherly tone, "this isn't where you're meant to be every day. You are meant for a calling. You've got to be here for a reason greater than drowning in spirits and brooding in silence."

Draven recognized the genuine concern in the tavern owner's words. His purpose in life was to tend to this haven, to listen to the tales and woes of his patrons. But their conversations had become a repetitive cycle, and Draven's patience was wearing thin.

"I didn't ask to be here," Draven muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, laden with a weariness that seemed too heavy for one lifetime.

The owner paused, his cleaning motion halting as he fixed his gaze on Draven. "You've always been a bit of a mystery, haven't you?" he remarked, a touch of sympathy in his tone. "While everyone else here revels in the joys of this paradise, you seem adrift, lost in your own thoughts."

Draven's eyes flickered with a mixture of emotions—perhaps recognition, maybe resentment. "Maybe some of us aren't meant for 'paradise,'" he retorted, his voice tinged with both resignation and defiance.

He sighed and redirected his gaze back to his glass, the liquid within mirroring the storm brewing in his soul. With a delicate motion, he lifted the glass, the amber liquid swirling within its confines.

The owner regarded Draven with a mixture of concern and understanding. "I don't know what you're searching for at the bottom of that glass, but I'm pretty sure you won't find it there."

But Draven was barely listening. His thoughts were a whirlpool, dragging him deeper into the recesses of his mind.

As the owner opened his mouth to speak once again, the tavern's door swung open, and a gust of wind ushered in a figure cloaked in mystery. His eyes scanned the room until they settled on Draven. Sensing the shift in the air, the tavern owner fell silent.

The figure, draped in simplicity, strode into the dimly lit tavern with an air of serene confidence. His hair and beard, as white as untouched snow, stood in stark contrast to the warm, earthy tones of his humble attire. There was a certain grace in the way he moved, an elegance that seemed out of place in the tavern's rustic setting.

Draven caught only a glimpse of him through the bottom of his glass as it emptied. Suddenly, the stranger stood before him, gazing at him with a warm, knowing smile playing upon his lips. "My old friend, it's been too long," he said, his voice imbued with a comforting familiarity.

Draven, taken aback, eyed the stranger with a blend of curiosity and confusion. "Friend? Who are you?"

The man chuckled softly, the sound reminiscent of leaves rustling in a gentle breeze. "My name holds little meaning to me anymore. But if a name offers you comfort, you can call me Gardener."

"Have we met before?" Draven questioned, a sense of familiarity stirring within him as he gazed at the stranger.

The Gardener pulled up a chair and settled into it, his demeanor calm and approachable. "In a way, we have. I've known you for some time, and yet at the same time, we don't know each other at all."