The Sun sets upon the Village of Stone, as the lanterns are extinguished, and little ones put to bed.
Yet out in dunes, the sound of a hammer can be heard, as a single lantern stands lit. A campfire is lit against the moon. A Villager pounds a chisel into a hunk of rock.His mask a bizarre shape, his body caked in rust and dust,a bag of carving tools at his waist.
His hands did not quiver at every strike. Nor any. This was his art, his joy.
It was what he wanted.
Did Henan want to be like this?
Was this really what he wanted?
He quelled these thoughts.
He must focus.
Was it really? Clang. Did he want to be eyed, as if he was foreign? Clang. To be called, the Nowhere Carver? Clang. Clang. Was it really ever his choice?Clang.
Is he condemned to be alone forever? Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang. Crunch.
He sighed woefully at the sight of yet another chisel broken.
He looked out at all the other statues, of Hunters, of Trees.
What a different Life. Perhaps it could have been better.
Better than this place, in self-exile.
Better than being ridiculed.
Henan wished he knew.
What better lives could have awaited him, than the nowhere carver.
@Ghid Finally made the story.