Elian

The sun's rays caught Elian's silvery-white hair, sending shimmers across his unruly locks like ripples on a mystical pond. He squinted against the brightness, his sharp grey eyes scanning the bustling marketplace before him. A sigh escaped his lips, heavy with a weariness that seemed misplaced on one so young.

"Another day, another struggle," he murmured to himself, straightening the collar of his simple white shirt. The fabric was worn but clean, a testament to his modest means and meticulous nature.

As he stepped into the crowd, Elian's posture remained tall and determined, a stark contrast to the slumped shoulders of the tired laborers around him. His dark trousers, patched at the knees, brushed against the rough cobblestones.

I don't belong here, he thought, a familiar ache settling in his chest. But then again, where do I truly belong?

"Oi, boy!" a gruff voice called out. "You there, with the queer hair!"

Elian turned, his eyes meeting those of a burly merchant. "Yes, sir?"

"Need a strong lad to help move these crates. Interested in earning a few coins?"

For a moment, Elian hesitated. The offer was tempting; extra money always helped. But something deeper, an inexplicable urge, pulled at him.

"I appreciate the offer," he replied, his voice carrying a maturity that belied his years, "but I'm afraid I must decline. There's... somewhere I need to be."

As he walked away, Elian's mind raced. Where do I need to be? What am I searching for? The questions echoed in his mind, as enigmatic as the strange glow of his hair and the depth of sorrow in his eyes.