The room hangs in the middle of nowhere. There are no doors, no windows. Each wall is the same as the other, as same as the floor and the ceiling–covered with standing knives, pointing inward toward the center of the room. In the center of the room is a boy, floating, his knees to his chest, his arms wrapped tight around his knees. His skin is pale yellow and dry. He cries dry tears, and makes the low, staccato sound of dry sobs. He stinks of sickness and death. His black eyes stare forward, looking into the truth.

He is a patchwork of innumerable open cuts, which cover his body yet do not bleed.

Every year, a pilgrimage is made to this place using unseen roads, and, through magic so old that it is beyond ancient, one question may be asked of the boy. The answers are always completely honest and pierce the core of the matter. For every answer he gives, he receives a new cut that will never heal.

The boy can never die.