The Kind Stranger
A Safe Way Home & A Lesson Learned
"Small hands lost in night so deep,
Soft words hush them back to sleep.
If they wander, if they roam,
A Kind Soul comes to bring them home."
"But if you left them cold and bare,
If you turned and weren’t aware,
The Kind Soul sees, the Kind Soul knows,
And through your dreams, the lesson grows."
Once upon a time, in the deep hours of the night, a child wandered too far from the warmth of the hearth. The stars were bright, the air still, and the fields stretched endlessly beneath a sky of quiet silver. The village lay behind them, its watchful lights distant, its familiar paths forgotten in the thrill of some imagined adventure. The child had not meant to go so far. They had only meant to chase the flickering lantern glow of a firefly, to follow the gentle babbling of the creek just beyond the edge of the fields. But the night had a way of unfolding like a winding thread, and before they knew it, the village was gone. The trees whispered with the wind, and the world felt larger than it had ever been before—too large, too empty, too cold. And then came the voice. Soft as a lullaby, warm as candlelight, it drifted through the night like a melody half-remembered from childhood dreams. "Little one," it murmured, "you shouldn’t be here alone." The child turned, expecting to see a neighbor, an elder, perhaps even their own mother. But the figure before them was neither stranger nor kin, and yet they felt no fear. It was not a man, nor a woman. Not old, nor young. Not quite anything at all. The figure stood beneath the branches, dressed in the gentleness of twilight itself, their form shifting like the surface of a still pond when disturbed by a breeze. To some, they might have seemed like a kind-faced grandfather, beckoning with a reassuring nod. To others, a gentle sister, arms open in quiet understanding. To the child, they looked familiar in a way they could not name—someone safe, someone known. "I was just about to walk home," the child said, suddenly embarrassed, as if caught in some harmless mischief. "Then let me walk with you," the figure replied. And so, the child walked, and the figure walked beside them. The road stretched longer than the child remembered, but the figure spoke softly, filling the night with gentle words, with kindness, with patience. They did not scold. They did not chide. They only spoke in the way a parent might speak to a child who has learned a lesson but does not yet know how to name it. By the time the child saw the village lights again, the night no longer seemed so vast, nor the shadows so deep. The figure stopped at the gate. "Go on, little one. You are home now." The child turned to thank them. The road was empty. The door creaked softly as the child stepped inside. The warmth of the fire touched their skin, the scent of soup still lingered in the air. Their mother, worried sick, gathered them in her arms, scolding and holding them all at once. The child promised they would never wander so far again. And they never did. But the Kind Soul was not yet finished. That same night, in another home, a man slept soundly in his bed. He had not stirred when the child left, had not noticed their absence, had not listened when their cries for help were swallowed by the night. And in his dreams, he was a child once more. The walls of his home dissolved into the cold, endless dark. The air thickened with fog, damp and suffocating. The night stretched out forever. He called out, but no voice answered. He ran, but there were no roads, no lights, no village ahead. He ran until his legs could carry him no further, until the cold crept into his bones, until he collapsed into the blackness, shivering and alone. And then he saw them. Figures in the mist. Familiar shapes—his own father, walking ahead, never once looking back. His mother, vanishing into the shadows, unseeing, uncaring. The home he had once known was there, just beyond the haze, its windows glowing warm and golden. But no matter how he screamed, no matter how he begged, no one turned to see him. For what felt like a lifetime, he was trapped there, drowning in the loneliness, the helplessness, the fear of a child abandoned. When he awoke, the dawn was breaking. His breath was ragged, his body trembling with something he could not name. And when he looked to the door of his room, he saw footprints in the dust that led only halfway inside. He did not remember leaving them. He did not need to. From that day forward, his hands never let go of his child's. His eyes never turned away. And when he saw another parent too careless, too thoughtless, too cruel, he warned them with a voice tight with something like fear. "Watch over your little ones. Someone else might be watching, too."
Summary
"People tell their children to stay close, to mind their steps, to never wander too far. But when a child is lost, truly lost, and yet finds their way home untouched, you’ll see it in their parents’ eyes—that quiet, haunted gratitude. Because they know. They know something walked with their child in the dark, something patient, something kind… and that they were not the only ones watching."
The legend of the Kind Soul is one of quiet, persistent whispers—neither a tale of wrath nor one of mercy, but something between. Unlike most stories of the Hush, which speak of horrors lurking in the dark, this tale tells of something that watches with gentle intent. Something that guides. Something that teaches. It is said that the Kind Soul appears only to children who are lost, abandoned, or left to wander alone. It takes on a shape that feels familiar, appearing as whatever the child trusts most—a warm smile, a familiar figure, a friend they cannot quite recall. It speaks with patience, with kindness, and leads the child home with soft words and steady steps. By the time the child arrives safely, the figure is gone, leaving no footprints in the dirt, no shadow in the lantern’s glow. But the story does not end there. For those who have failed their duty—those who have turned away when a child was in need, those who have abandoned, neglected, or forgotten—the Kind Soul does not simply pass unseen. It does not punish with fire or blade, nor does it take a life in vengeance. It does something worse. In the quiet of the night, the careless wake to find themselves trapped in a dream. And in that dream, they are a child again—lost, alone, afraid. The roads they once knew stretch too far, the voices they once trusted never answer. Fear and helplessness wrap around them like creeping vines, dragging them into the cold emptiness of the forgotten. There, they relive their own deepest pain—whether it be a time they were abandoned, a time they were left to fend for themselves, a time when no hand reached for them when they needed it most. To the dreamer, the torment lasts for days, weeks, even months. In truth, it is over in a single night. But when they wake, something is different. Their hands shake when they see their child wander too close to the road. Their breath catches when a little one cries out in the distance. And though they may never speak of it, though they may scoff and dismiss the stories of the Kind Soul, they will never again allow a child in their care to be lost to the dark. Because they have been there. And they know, now, what it is to be truly alone.
Cultural Reception
"I never believed in old wives’ tales, not until I woke up gasping, tears on my face, my hands clawing at a door that wasn’t there. A week, trapped in the dark, calling a name that never answered. A week, listening to silence where laughter should have been. And yet, when I opened my eyes, only a single night had passed. The child was safe. And I understood. Some lessons must be learned the hard way."
In Areeott, the legend of the Kind Soul is one of the few tales of the Hush spoken of with something other than fear. It is not whispered about with the same dread as the Weeping House or the Beast of the Hollow Needle, nor is it met with the superstitious caution that keeps Arin hands from tossing silver into wells. Instead, it lingers in the quiet spaces between bedtime stories and hushed warnings, a tale that is as much a lesson as it is a myth. Every Arin child grows up hearing of the Kind Soul, told in warm voices by parents who remind them that if they ever find themselves lost, they should not be afraid. Someone will come for them. Someone kind. Someone who will lead them home. They may not remember exactly what the figure looked like—only that it was familiar, safe, something that did not let go of their hand until they were where they needed to be. But while the children learn to trust in the Kind Soul, the adults learn another lesson. They do not speak of it outright, but it lingers in the back of their minds whenever a child slips too far from reach. The knowledge that they must be watchful, that they must never grow complacent in their duty, because the Kind Soul does not only guide the lost—it judges those who allowed them to be lost in the first place. This is why Arin villages and cities are meticulous in looking after their young. Strangers to Areeott are often bewildered by how quickly a missing child is noticed, how a wandering toddler will be gently but firmly returned to safety by any adult nearby, even those who are otherwise hardened by the world. They see no need for orphanages—abandoned children are not left to chance, nor to institutions. They are taken in, given a place, watched over as if they had always belonged. For those raised in Areeott, the story is never openly discussed as a force shaping their culture, but its presence is undeniable. It is in the instinct to check twice before letting a child cross the street, in the careful way they speak when anger threatens to turn cruel, in the way their hands tighten at their sides when they see a mother turn too sharply from a crying child. Because they all know someone who woke up one morning, pale and shaken, unable to speak of what they saw in their dreams. They all know someone who used to be careless, thoughtless, cruel—and who, after a single night, never was again. The Kind Soul does not take lives. But it changes them. And in Areeott, that is enough.
"I wasn’t scared. Not really. I mean, I was at first, when I couldn’t find the road and the trees looked different, and it got dark too fast. But then I heard someone humming—soft, like Mama used to—and there was a hand in mine, warm and gentle. I don’t remember what they looked like, just that they felt safe. They walked me home.
Mama cried when she saw me. But when I turned to say thank you... there was no one there."
Date of Setting
"Once Upon A Time..."
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"I thought it was just a dream. A child, lost in the snow, calling for help. I followed, of course I did—who wouldn’t? But when I found them, their eyes were too bright, their voice too calm.
They took my hand, led me forward, and suddenly... I was a boy again. Small, alone, crying in the dark where no one came for me. I relived every cold, hungry night. Every unanswered call.
When I woke, I was kneeling at my own doorstep, weeping like a fool. My hands were shaking. My legs barely carried me inside.
My son was still in bed, safe, warm, untouched. I sat beside him until morning, promising I would never—never—fail to hear him call."
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