In the quaint, forgettable town of Moss Creek, where the river meandered like an old man's tale and the cornfields whispered secrets to the wind, there lived a boy named Eli. He was as ordinary as a Tuesday afternoon, with hair the color of straw and eyes that held a perpetual squint, as if always trying to read the fine print of life. Eli was a reluctant participant in his own existence, preferring the company of books to the boisterous antics of other kids his age.

Eli's life was as predictable as the phases of the moon. He lived with his Aunt Mabel, a woman as stern as a winter frost, who ran the town's only inn with an iron fist and a sharp tongue. His parents had vanished when he was a baby, leaving behind nothing but a peculiar birthmark on Eli's shoulder—a small, star-shaped mark that his aunt insisted was just a curious freckle.

One day, as Eli was sweeping the inn's porch, a stranger arrived. He was tall and gaunt, with eyes that seemed to hold the weight of the world. The stranger asked for a room and, as Aunt Mabel barked orders at Eli, he noticed the man's peculiar gaze fixed on his birthmark. The stranger's name was Silas, and he carried with him an air of mystery that was as palpable as the dust on the old inn's floors.