hollow

the rest of the pack spends its effort making small fragile things worth caring about. hollow is where some of them ended. four ruins generate rarely in the hills — all vanilla blocks, nothing that attacks you, no loot worth the trip. what generates is the evidence that somebody lived here before you did, and what it costs you is only the mood you walked in with.

the shepherd's hut, collapsed on a meadow: a cold campfire, a provisioned barrel, and her last page, which asks you to leave a nugget out for the crows. the well on the hill road, curb mossed over, water still sweet, a traveller's note kept dry at the bottom of the shaft. the ring of stones on the high ground, five of seven still standing, a soul flame in the sunken middle that never goes out. and the barrow — a green mound with a doorway low enough to make anyone bow.

one story runs through the loot: a shepherd called wren, a dog called bram, and the crows of the valley, who came to the burying. the journal pages are real written books, and every copy found is generation-two — a copy of an original nobody has.

the barrow and the ring keep their own weather. carry a torch inside and it turns soul-pale — and the pale moths, if they live here, already know the way.