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Night settles over the village, the sound of water lapping against wood and the gentle chirping of frogs the only companions to the moon. A few residents remain outside, discussing in their local dialect the news of the preceding day, the sort of gossip that so regularly grips remote locales where everyone knows everyone. The smell of cigarettes and the aromas of rice wine accompany the laughter and hushed words of sun-darkened fishermen and their ever-harsh wives. The hamlet is one of peace and tranquility, a bastion of a bygone age from before the era of cable television and the steam engine. Only the electric lights and the ever-present t-shirts depicting soccer teams both local and European betray the seep of modernity into even a town as lost to time as this one.
The sole train station sits dormant, the last ancient carriage out of Bangkok having entered and left not an hour ago. Wayward children and wouldbe scholars return to their ancestral home, visiting grandparents and returning from trips to the grand city of the south. But with them walks another.
A stranger in a strange land, the girl ignores the curious glances she gets from the locals. Her skin is sun-dark, but naturally pale, and her hair is lighter than any shade present in that rural township. It is rare for a foreigner to visit, but not unheard of. Fish and rice may be the primary exports of the village, but they are not its most famous.
The girl walks with dogged purpose, but downcast eyes betray her somber attitude and near-defeated energy. Another wayward soul. A westerner who has heard tale of the fairytales coming out of the town and wishes to seek the guidance of the venerable masters within.
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