In a faraway small village nestled between misty hills and a winding river, the air inside the tiny thatched-roof hut was thick with the sharp, earthy scent of burning herbs.
A native doctor, an elderly man with weathered skin and kind but solemn eyes, stood over the low wooden bed where Elian lay motionless. He waved a bundle of smoking leaves slowly over the young man's pale face, murmuring soft prayers in a dialect foreign to the ears.
The smoke curled upward in thin gray ribbons, carrying the bitter aroma of healing plants meant to draw out fever and quiet restless spirits.
Elian's chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. His skin was clammy, his brown curls matted against his forehead, and a fresh bandage wrapped tightly around his head where the rock had struck him.
Dark circles shadowed his closed eyes. Two full weeks had passed since the river nearly claimed them, and still he had not stirred.
