No one remembers his name. The villagers simply called him "the eccentric from the outskirts," while the children he entertained in the evenings called him the Master. He lived in a leaning shack by the marsh, a place where even those gathering firewood rarely ventured. No one ever greeted him first; if he came out to the well, the women would fall silent and turn away. It wasn't because he was malicious—quite the opposite, he always smiled—but because there was something unsettling in his gaze: he looked at people as if he saw nothing but emptiness within them.

In the evenings, he would wheel a cart out to the village square and put on performances. His puppets danced, bowed, fought with wooden swords, and even wept. His shows were so lifelike that the villagers wouldn't even let traveling actors into their village. Why bother, when they had the Master and his puppets?

But the strangest thing was that no one ever saw any strings. The puppets moved on their own, without any visible support, and the only tools the Master held were a pair of old, rusty scissors and a long needle. He didn't manipulate the puppets; he simply sat to the side, occasionally snipping the air with the scissors or making a subtle, swift movement with the needle.

Children squealed with delight, while the adults eyed these objects with apprehension. Superstitious folk believed that with those scissors and that needle, one could reshape the very fabric of existence. And after the Master died, no one dared to touch those objects.