Everybody wanted to live in the four-story pagoda. Picture this: a wide expanse of water, glistening with stars; a crescent moon hanging in the skies amidst clouds; a home, within it all. That was the pagoda. Mist seemed to always surround it. One time, when we were kids, we took a small boat nearby but couldn’t get close enough to see in through the windows. They were always lit, though, and the rumor was that a small family lived there: a mother, a father, and their child. Some people said they were alive, some thought they were already dead. Our town agreed that they were elves, though. Elves banished from their forests, to live out their days in seclusion, fearful of any visitors. That was why they had the protection of the mist.

Until one day, he broke it.