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In a corner of the village where few wander and even fewer stay for a minute longer, stands a little house with brick walls covered in vines and a broken sloped roof. A little garden surrounds the house, once pretty and tended for but now with more weeds growing in the wild grass than flowers and plants. No one had lived there in years and the house had been left uncared for.
Passersby had littered into the garden, and here and there one would find the pungent smell of decaying trash or the occasional energy drink can, thrown by the hand of those with little care for the environment. There was once a time when the people who lived nearby to the house would clean up the garden; pick up trash and mow down the weeds, but as the years passed they stopped their efforts and the place was slowly forgotten.
A huge oak tree graces the right side of the dilapidated house and its branches spread wide and wild, throughout the entire garden. From one of its more thicker branches hangs a tire, the rubber eaten out in places from its continuous exposure to nature and the rope from which it hung, frayed from being picked at by birds.
The back of the house was no different from the rest; the walls were spray painted with various graffiti and the stone cat that stood almost like a guard to the backyard was covered in moss, vine and even more vile materials.
All things considered, the house, so broken and old, was not one many people sought after. No passerby ever stopped to give a second glance to the place or to even ask of its history.
What a loss it is for them.
The house has always stood there, as old as ever and even older as the years pass but to those who remember, it was once a great place; warm and welcoming. The grass was always clean and neatly trimmed, not a single weed in sight, the oak tree and its swing well cared for. The flower beds woke up bright and cheerful from their rest for the spring and sang all throughout the summer. Butterflies and birds alike were always present; fluttering and flying about the colourful flowers.
The windows were clean, bright and shiny and the sunlight reflected off the panes. The brick walls were painted a brilliant yellow and a fresh coat was applied every year so that the colors will never fade. The curtains of the house were always drawn shut, be it night or day and yet the door was always open.
The door to the house was always open for any traveller to seek shelter and even for the locals who would drop in for a chat. The house was never empty. One or two people would always linger about, reluctant to leave once they had visited, for the house was friendly and safe but most of all the house was magical.
In the house there was always a huge, shiny black pot in the middle of the great living space, bubbling away merrily with one concoction or the other. There would be books all over the place, the pages open to show the ingredients and instructions of the potion being made but not one person who entered the house was capable of reading it.
Many had tried to but none had succeeded, for it was quite the impossible feat, considering the books were written in a language long lost and forgotten.
Forgotten by all but the owner of the house. The only person alive who could understand the language with ease and the only person alive of his kind.
In the little house that stands in a corner of the village where people used to wander about day in and day out, lived a witch. A great and powerful witch. They called him Min Yoongi and he was the last of his kind and the kindest of them all.
Too kind, it became his demise.
He trusted people too readily; no, he trusted the humans too readily. A species well known to turn their backs on one another and he had let them in too close. So close, he had been quite literally stabbed in the back.
He was never one to turn away a traveller looking for lodging and one day he had let a man stay at his home. A man who claimed to be from the next village, just out on a whim to see new places. Yoongi had let the man stay, gave him a comfortable bed and a warm supper, and when night fell, the man struck his last and fatal blow.
He was a hunter, the strange man. A hunter from the capital who had heard the rumors of a witch living amongst humans, living happily amongst humans, and he had come to hunt. The capital provided hunters with a great bounty whenever they brought about the demise of yet another supernatural being and the hunters were more than eager to please.
The hunter brought with him a dagger, spelled in the past by a witch now long dead, so that its threat and lethalness would not be detected by another of its kind. With it he had attacked the older when he had lain to rest and he easily brought about the last witch's death.
Or so was his great masterplan.
For in the little house in the corner of the city where people used to wander in whether sun or rain, hail or snow, also lived a little fluffy cat. The white persian cat lived there for as long as its master and everyone made jokes that a witch wouldn't be complete without its familiar. Yoongi only smiled at the matter and never addressed it forthright.
But the people were right. The cat was the witch's familiar and it had lived as long as the other. Maybe older still. Yoongi named him Seokjin and you see, unlike his witch, Seokjin was not one to trust humans. Not even if they had the purest of hearts and the kindest of souls.
Seokjin only liked the witch who had looked after him for as long as he could remember. He neither liked nor trusted anyone else and he definitely did not trust this man who had walked into his masters home with malice in his eyes and an ego too big for his body. Though the man had done his best to hide all his evil intent, Seokjin saw all, knew all.
Late into the night when the moon was high in the sky and when everyone was in bed, the man woke up to carry out his villainous act. Seokjin took to the human form he possessed, yet rarely used, and defended his master with everything he had. Yoongi had awoken to the sounds and took his stance immediately, his fingers glowing with the brilliant blue glow Seokjin loved.
The scuffle was short and unfortunate.
More than just one life was lost that night.
The hunter's dagger found its mark in the witch's heart but not before the witch's curse took hold onto his skin. As the familiar watched, his master vanished into light and nothingness, as all witches do when in death. The hunter stumbled out of the house and towards the backyard, where it connected to the woods.
Filled with sorrow and hatred, the familiar shifted back and ran after the man, determined to end things. In the backyard, before he could step out of the property, he felt the bonds he had with his master break, and with it any and all powers he owned.
He mewled pathetically as all he could do was stand still and turn to stone as the evil man got away. He got the opportunity for the last laugh though, when the man dropped dead as the curse his master cast took root. The stone covered the familiar's face and his eyes and then finally, everything stopped.
No longer alive but not yet dead.
Not aging a day but still living through all of them.
From the backyard he watched as the home he loved, the home his master loved, fell to ruin and despair. He watched as people came and people left. He watched people live and die. He watched as they destroyed his once safe haven. He watched them forget of the witch and his cat who once lived in the little house on the corner of the village.
He watched and he lamented.
In a corner of the village where few wander and even fewer stay for a minute longer, stands a little house with brick walls covered in vines and a broken sloped roof. A little garden surrounds the house, once pretty and tended for but now with more weeds growing in the wild grass than flowers and plants. No one had lived there in years and the house had been left uncared for.
Then on one fated day, on the night of a full moon, when it was a pretty shade of red rather than the usual white, and the stars were twinkling and bright, when people were busy looking up in awe, a man crept into the land that had been neglected for years.
He walked a path from the front to the back and all around the house with every step he took, the flowers grew. He walked like he knew the place like the back of his hand and he walked all the way to the stone cat that was covered in moss, vine and even more vile materials. Gentle hands brushed away the dirt and with a snap of his fingers and a glow of brilliant blue light, the stone began to melt away, dropping to the ground in small chunks.
That night, when the moon was full and red, and the stars were shining bright, the world witnessed a moment so private it would have turned away if it could have.
A man took the place of the stone cat and the one who had walked in and made the flowers bloom tucked one of them into the now gently sobbing man's hair. Tears were shed and soft, tender kisses were shared but not a soul witnessed the moment and rightfully so. This moment was for them and interruptions were unwelcome.
If the two men chose to look at the stars in each other's eyes and not the ones shining bright in the night sky, then it was unknown to anyone but them. Not a soul witnessed them come and when they crept away in the shadows of the night, none witnessed that either.
In a corner of the village where few wander and even fewer stay for a minute longer, stands a little house with brick walls covered in bright yellow paint and a sloped roof with red shingles. A little garden surrounds the house, with flowers and plants adding varying splashes of color all around. Nobody knew who lived there, or if anyone lived there at all, but it remained cared and loved for and people spoke of it in hushed voices and whispers. Spoke of the witch and his familiar who used to live there years and years ago, until one day, they didn't.