The boy who tells the stories is what they call him now. They have made him like one of them. When I was forced to leave him here all those years ago the kind woman was the one who took him in. She raised him as her own child. I am thankful for that, but now it's time for me to give him his name back.
This town is strange, the people even stranger. No one here has a name, they identify each other in every other way, but they refuse to give themselves or their children names. The boy who tells the stories once had a name, A name that I gave him when he was born, but they took it away from him. Now he doesn't remember who he used to be.
I have been watching him for awhile now, maybe two months. He has friends here, the girl who draws, and the boy with one eye. He is happy here, I almost don't want to take him away from here. He won't recognize me, he hasn't seen me for years. Yet some part of me knows that he doesn't belong here anymore than I do.
