On the edge of the world, an old man had built his house. This house, of old brick, dark wood, and clay tiles of burnt orange, was naught more than a lean-to, though it served his purposes well. In fact, it could hardly be called a lean-to, as it had nothing upon which to lean. For instead of having four walls, like most shelters, his had only three. And where the last wall should have been — the last wall that faced the edge of the world — there was only a void. Perhaps it was originally built this way, or perhaps such close proximity to the edge had eventually caused it to simply fade away. Either way, the old man seemed not to worry much about this, though discomfiting, stale winds would occasionally drift through his house, coming from whatever lay beyond the confines of his home.

His routine was never affected by these winds, however. Each morning, he would wake from sleep, spend a few minutes pondering his night visions, and then break his fast with two bowls of porridge and a hard-boiled egg. Routine carried him through his small garden in the orange soil to the well under the tree. There were few trees this far from the center of things, though they inevitably marked a source of water nearby. His vegetables, from which he derived most of his meager meals, were quite obviously not from the outer territories, and had in fact been transplanted from faraway lands. No plants grew natively here, except for the sparse and isolated trees that dotted the horizon, and even they looked more like soil molded into the shape of trees than trees themselves.

Taking up the wooden bucket near to the well, he lowered it into the water far below, listening for signs of contact. Once he was sure his labors had been successful, he slowly raised the bucket from the well-bottom, humming an unknown song to himself. Placing the rope and clasp onto the lip of the well, he made his way back to the garden with his bucket of water. The brackish water, slightly oily and saturated with particles of dirt and clay, sloshed furiously with the old man’s unsure steps. The garden plants, however, drank deeply — almost greedily — in the mid-morning sun. As he tended his row of radishes, the old man noticed a slight difference in spacing between his last radish and the edge of the world. The amount of space between the two seemed smaller than he remembered, though the difference was not too noticeable. Unworried, he merely moved his radish a bit farther from the edge, thinking the matter resolved.

As he stood up, he noticed a shadow at the gate. A man stood there, dust-covered but for his boots, which seemed immaculately polished. This seemed strange to the old man, who wondered as to why his boots should remain clean while all his other garments were flecked with the dirt and clay of the world’s edge. These thoughts did not stay long in his mind, however, as the man made a deferential nod of his head, asking, “Have you tea?” as if it were the logical next step in the greeting process. Not wanting to appear inhospitable, the old man curtly grunted in the affirmative, and made his way past the man with the shining boots to the front door of his house. Not looking back to see whether or not the stranger followed, the old man entered and set a kettle on his quaint stove, moving about his small space in an attempt to find something resembling tea. Finally, in the far corner of his spice box, he came across three sere tea leaves. Placing these in his pocket, he moved to fetch the now-whistling kettle from atop the stove.

The other man now entered, producing two small, cracked tea cups from beneath his robe; he placed these upon the ground as he sat, gesturing for the old man to join him. Straining his knees, the old man lowered himself to the floor, crossing his legs as was customary so near to the edge. Taking the three ancient leaves out of his pocket, and crushing them slightly in his left hand to release their inner oils, he placed half of the fragments in each cup, and an aromatic steam filled the air, smelling more of life than of simple tea. And so they sat, staring, waiting for the other to speak.

The air between them was not tense, but it was not comfortable either. The younger man lifted the tea cup to his lips, and drank deeply from its small shape, finishing the entire drink. Holding out the empty cup between two raised hands, he beckoned for the old man to refill his faded and meager vessel. Gingerly, the old man once more poured tea for his guest. And it was then that the cloaked stranger spoke.

“The tea is delicious. Thank you.”

Grunting noncommittally and averting his eyes, the old man rubbed his knee, hoping to massage out the stiffness that had slowly built up over time. Many years had passed since the last time he had sat upon the ground, and the strain of his old age did not make it any more bearable. But though his body aged, his ears were no less dull, and in the closed confines of his house, the voice of his unidentified guest echoed strangely in the space overhead. Its deep tones, magnified by odd reverberations, seemed not to emanate from the man at all, but from a greater space external to him — as if he were calling from a cave, or from deep within a well.

The younger man continued. “You do not seem surprised to find me at your house, though you no doubt must be wondering as to who I am, as well as to the purpose of my visit.” Sitting cross-legged, with tea held in his lap by two still hands, the eyes of the stranger assessed the face and posture of his host.

“Yes, I suppose I am,” muttered the old man, whose voice was tired and not accustomed to speech. “And I presume you shall tell me as to why you have come upon my property?” With these words, he coughed lightly, clearing his throat after such a long period of disuse.

“Well, I am afraid that these questions do not have simple answers. You see, the proper responses are based in years of experiences and events wholly unknown to you, he who makes his home at the edge of things.” These last words seemed more a title than a description, and the old man was unable to decide as to whether this was a sign of respect or a veiled mockery. But he did not have much time to evaluate this statement, as the stranger continued.

“As for who I am, are you familiar with the city of Beleral?” he asked with a slight inflection in his voice that had previously gone undetected.

Delving deep into his memories, the old man could not recall having ever heard such a name. “No, I cannot say that I am.”

Placing his tea cup upon the ground directly in front of him, and carefully aligning it between his feet, the younger man seemed aloof, as if thinking of how best to proceed.

“Then it is of no consequence,” he said, having regained his flawless composure. “As for why I am here, I believe you may have already stumbled upon the answer, though you may not have realized it fully.” With this, he stood quickly and walked toward the door.

“Come.”

The old man remained seated for perhaps a minute, contemplating the strange manner of his guest, as well as the possible reasons for his sudden and unannounced appearance. Yet, he could not summon even one reason to his mind, and the riddle persisted, taking on various guises and permutations within his head — unsolvable and inscrutable. Feeling as if he had no choice, he stood slowly, hearing the result of old age in both his joints and bones. As he rose, he heard the sound of glass shattering upon the floor. In his speculations, he had forgotten about the empty tea cup he had placed upon his lap. Bending down, he began to calmly gather the pieces, when he heard from outside the man call, “Ignore the cup, if you will. There are things yet more important than broken belongings, and some require immediate consideration.”

Leaving the shards of glass in his hand, the old man stepped carefully over the remains of the cup, and made his way through the doorway. The sun was now high above his well-tree, and only small shadows were being cast around the ground. Glancing about for his guest, the old man found him in the garden, standing near to the edge of the world, silent and unmoving, his eyes fixed upon something inchoate in the distance. The old man moved to his side in an attempt to find what the stranger was staring at so intensely. Finding nothing, his eyes moved to the ground, and to the row of radishes lining the fence. They were all accounted for, of course, but, strangely, the last radish appeared closer to the edge than it had been this morning after the old man had moved it.

“Ah, so you have noticed,” said the strange man, still staring into the far distance. “I wondered if you would.”

Clenching his fists in disbelief, the old man raised his eyes past the visitor, finally beginning to give form to whatever was drawing inexorably nearer. Suddenly he became attuned to the pain in his left hand. In his revelation, he had clasped the slivers of glass in a closed fist, and they had sunk deep into his palm, drawing blood. Softly, he spoke.

“But what does it mean?”

His voice was carried over the edge and lost amid the old airs there, and as he bled onto the ground, his plants drank deep, mixing red with orange.

“We do not know exactly what it — or perhaps they is more precise — is. All we know is that, of late, the land crumbles far faster than in any previous year recounted in our records, and that this change seems to have coincided with their appearance.” This the stranger said, his eyes searching in vain to discern the shapes in the far distance.

The old man struggled as well, his eyes focused under a deeply-furrowed brow. His hand, still bleeding, let fall small drops of blood onto one of his turnips. “How long ago came this change to order?” he asked, eyes unmoving. “And who is this ‘we’ to which you bind yourself?”

A wind whipped at the man’s cloak, pushing it off his still-clean boots. A low moaning could be heard far below the house at cliff’s edge.

“This would be not but eleven days ago since it was noticed by those employed by the government,” he responded, peering downward at the source of the moan. “I take it you know of governance, even here at the edge of things.” This, more a statement than a question, gave the old man pause. He sank into reflection.

“No. I know nothing of governance. The word seems uncouth, and the way you speak of it does nothing to soften my anxieties.” The cloaked man let show a small smile.

“You are correct in your fear, and your insight is founded, though you could not know that; indeed we are an imperfect system, but still that system which organizes life has its uses. It has brought me here to you, for one.” He now looked at the old man, seeing that he was wounded for the first time.

“You are in some small pain, I suppose,” he said to the old man.

“You suppose correctly, though I deem you misidentify its source,” came the reply.

“Ah, well. Many pains can coexist, and it is infrequent that we are beset by only one hardship. Your hand or your heart — at day’s end, both can rob us of rest. We should return into doors, however, and lessen both your weariness and your hurt.” Turning away from the myriad clouds and dusts, he began to walk to the older man’s dwelling.

The old man lingered at the edge for a while longer. His dim eyes looked on toward the shifting, distant masses, but he knew nothing could be learned from this vigil. These things were beyond his ken. Before turning away from the creeping oranges and dust reds at his feet, he looked at the broken cup in his hands — the shards that, in his revery, had loosed his blood. He squeezed them again, gently this time, and, raising his arm, cast them over the edge.

Back in the hut, he found a small fire going and his guest seated upon the bed polishing his shoes. He watched for a while from the doorway before speaking. “Why are you come here? What end do you seek with me?”

“Please, my friend, let us not yet hasten to that, though I fear that topic must come up sooner rather than later. For now, though, a meal will do.” With this suggestion, he pulled from some space beneath his cloak a faded bag. In it was a small amount of dried meat, some pickled vegetables, and a loaf of waybread; he spread a worn piece of fabric upon the dirt floor and sat down to lay out the dinner. Once this was done, he looked up expectantly at his aged host, who was still standing in the doorway. He motioned for him to sit.

“Forgive me, my guest, but I cannot eat a meal to which I have not contributed. Wait but a moment.” He was gone outside for not even a minute when he returned with a small armful of vegetables. He set about preparing these, and it was then that the stranger spoke.

“Tell me: what do you know of life, and of our world?”

The old man paused, having cut only halfway through a carrot.

“Of our world? Only what you see here: the ways of gathering water, of tending crops, of preparing food, of sleep and its cause, of visions, and also the ways of earth and wind. But I know nothing of the center or of governance.” This last word he said with uncertainty, a strange taste in his mouth. “Of life? I know not. In what way is life distinct from our world — or the land from living?” He finished with the carrot and began to peel another.

He could not see, having turned away, but the younger man was smiling intensely. “Wisely put, my friend, for I too can see no difference. But tell me: how long have you made this your home, and have you no company here at the edge of things?”

“Ah. These questions are those that have answers more known to me. I came upon this place — this shelter — when I was but a young man in my Days of Wandering.”

“And did you find what it was you desired to find?” — the stranger interrupted.

“Yes. I did. And more besides than I ever imagined for myself.”

The stranger smiled. “I am happy for you,” he said, after a moment. The old man picked up the last vegetable from his basket.

“And how long were your own Days, my guest? And did you find your desire?” This he asked in a near whisper, though the stranger knew not why.

“No. My desire still eludes me, and I have all but given up on obtaining it. Also I am kept occupied by my governmental function, which keeps at bay such thoughts. And yet . . . .” he trailed off.

The old man smiled briefly at his guest’s response before turning around, though his face upon turning bore no remnant of mirth. He sat and placed the remaining food on the man’s cloth. “I have lived here ever since, and have had no companionship but for visitors like yourself — usually merchants and tinkers and the Wanderers on their quests.”

“And do you not get lonely or sink into your own isolation here in such a desolate place?” responded his guest.

“No, no. You misapprehend what I sought and what I found,” the old man replied. “For I sought stillness, and stillness I have found. Life here is as dust, both in its lingering and shifting. There is a wisdom and order to life here that was made known to me immediately when first I arrived; in fact, I could not refuse it. I was led to live here by some force I do not understand, though I feel enduring gratitude for this strange force to this day. It has guided me well.” At this, the two men began to eat. A silence closed over them, returning the house to its normalcy. Inside, small flames arose and crackled, while strange winds and creeping sands fed their voices to the night. Beyond the edge, above the storm of dust which knew neither end nor rest, a few stars ripened in the blackness, fading in and out of sight as the storm shook and convulsed.

“I have not been forthright with you,” said the stranger suddenly, occluding both star and storm. “But I . . . well, I feel as though I must be, at such generosity as you have shown. We in the center do know whence these things come, though only vaguely. But we are more sure as to what draws them, and why, in certain places, the edge succumbs more quickly to their movements. And this is mostly happenstance. As our scholars noticed the change in our world, they put out a call to those with information — however slight or tenuous — concerning these matters. Only two citizens, people like yourself, both from the edge, came forward, and their tales were these:

One man had long had a wife prone to periods of sickness; her latest episode had been particularly pitiable, with the wife confined in bed with fever, weakness, and bouts of severe hysteria. She screamed at their children, laying sullen in bed, and even went so far as to throw her breakfast at her mother-in-law. And this behavior was completely unlike her normal patterns and relations. Where she was once sweet, she was now vindictive; where clear she was now confused. As the wife grew more and more un-herself, the world-change was noticed, first by her children. One of them came up to the father on a singularly dusty day, wide-eyed with tales of beings in the dust. Shocked for the safety of his house and family, he ran to the edge and gazed upon the storm. His son was right. Dark shadows writhed in the haze, at times closer and at times farther away. It was then, in his determined gaze, that the ground in front of him fell away. He gathered his family to him to decide what to do against these twin phenomena — these woes. But his wife could not help. She could not even move. And so the man went for medicine — a two-day journey to obtain a certain poultice from our city. And there he heard of this threat occurring in all places. With this ever in his mind, he returned home in haste, noticing on his way that the edge was yet closer to the foundations of their house. He was focused on healing his wife, however, and within a day she was well. He took her outside for air and light, and noticed then that the shapes in the haze were gone — utterly, as if they had never existed. So too had the ground ceased to fall away. This is his tale.

The other incident happened not too far from here, in truth, though it has somewhat less a cheerful end. A couple, older even than you, my host, had lived much as you do for years beyond their memories. On a day, while tending to their hearth, the old man was struck by a loose stone from the chimney; as happens with those who have collected many years to themselves, his injury grew worse with rapidity, inviting both sickness and mental torment to aid in his demise. Within the two days between his accident and his death, can you guess what is was that his wife saw?”

The old man looked down at his food. Raising his eyes slightly, he answered: “Beings in the fog and the world’s crumbling.” This he said with weight, knowing it already to be true.

“You are right,” said the younger man. “She too saw the strange shadows and falling lands. But here is where her story — and my story — is different, for the shapes did not disappear at the death of her husband. Nor did the world’s disintegration. I was sent to her shortly after she reported these shapes to the local seat of governance, and I spent her final days with her. For she was old, and old hearts accustomed to companionship heal neither readily nor fully. She died in her sleep as I sat beside her, watching those dark forms writhe in the sands. But, upon her death, after I had dressed the body for burial, I could no longer spot the beings at play. They were gone. It was then that we realized another key to our riddle. Another connection. I am sure, by now, that you have surmised why I am here,” he said, turning his face from the fire to his host. The flames burned low.

“Of course,” his guest assured.

Few sounds were heard as the two sat in silence: only the soft clinking of utensils and the crackle of fire. In certain moments of stillness the winds were heard — soft, inviting. The old man at last put down his bowl. “I suppose I can ask you to wash these vessels,” he said to his guest with a certain earnestness.

“Of course. And . . . I wish that all this had not come to pass. In another life, we may —”

“We may have been many things, but speculation is useless. Reality is as it is. My life has been good, in accordance with my Wandering. I can ask for no more. Though you have come here seeking my departure in an effort to save your world, still I would thank you for the company, however brief. Just as there is meaning in solitude, so too have I now found meaning in amity. May you find the answer to your Wandering, and may it lead you to peace.” At this, he stood up, and, glancing once more at the face of his guest, began to walk toward the void in his house. As his feet reached the edge, he bent to unfasten his sandals, throwing them into the open air before him, watching them swiftly disappear from sight.

“ — There are other ways!” his guest called out, “other paths you might take!” And though he could not see it, the old man smiled once more. Stepping forward, the old man fell into the old airs there, hearing, one last time, their voices rise and fall. In the old man’s house at the edge of the world, the stranger wept.