There was a man. He had no permanent home, but what he had were stories. Stories of faraway places, of strange creatures, of everyday people. No one really knew how he got them. They seemed to come from nowhere. He was known as The Traveler or The Storyteller. If you asked for his true name, he would tell you. Only you. You weren’t allowed to tell others. They had to ask themselves. 
          He traveled with one bag. Most of the space was taken up by a leather-bound book for his stories. Walking was preferred to get places. Sometimes, you could catch him on a train if the distance was great. If it weren’t for the fact that he’d been everywhere, people would say he was a myth. Many believed he held magic since he didn’t appear to age. Yet he held knowledge in the form of cautionary tales, endless wisdom prevalent in dark eyes.
          The next town he came across was small. The houses were quaint and the people seemed friendly. He made his way down the street, ignoring the stares he received at his sudden appearance. He could feel one pair of eyes burning into his back as he continued, ignoring it for now. The inn had a bell that rang pleasantly upon his entrance. The owner stood and led him to a room. 
          The following morning, he emerged for breakfast. The food was filling and he left satisfied. He headed towards a fountain he saw, heavy book under arm. 
          The fountain was made of white stone and blue tiles. He settled himself on the warming edge, waiting for someone to approach him. Some children shyly requested a fairy tale. He smiled kindly and started on a classic about a dragon and a knight. The crowd grew steadily, as his arms gestured to animate the story. Once the sun was high in the sky, he stopped. The crowd parted for him like he was a king as he made his way towards a tavern. He ate his fill, then returned outside. The following days continued in fashion.
          On his last day, a young man approached him. He was interested as he had seen the man at each of his storytellings during his stay. He had stayed at the edge of the crowd, but always caught his eye. The storyteller thought he was imagining things until around the third day. He had been regaling the crowd with a story about a crow and a pitcher of water when he noticed the blond head was closer. Further observation had revealed hesitation and . . . something else. He had been unsure what it was. The only thing clear was that the young man had a question. 
          Once he’d finally been approached, the question wasn’t surprising. “What is your name?” The Traveler could see the many questions burning behind blue eyes, straining to break free. Curious to see where this would go, he answered,
          “Call me Jack.”
          “So Jack isn’t your name?” at his — Jack’s — curious look, he continued, “You said call you Jack. That implies Jack isn’t your name.” Jack smiled faintly, but didn’t respond. “My name is Will.” A pause. “You seem surprised I said that. Why?”
          “Not many tell me their name. They ask for mine, then leave. They never seem willing to share, so I never press. They just want a story. Nothing more.”
          “Well, I have loads of questions. I’ve always been curious. You don’t mind, do you?”
          “I’ll answer the best I can.” 
          “How long have you been around? You look young, but there are people ages older than you that mention they enjoyed your stories as children.” He had a thirst for knowledge, a need, to be the one to pick apart who exactly Jack was. 
          “I don’t remember. At some point I stopped keeping track. No reason for it.”
          “So . . . for all you know, you could be over one hundred years old. Maybe older! You’ve been doing this for decades!” There was a trace of awe in Will’s voice, before a frown marred his face. “You must be lonely. Being alone for so long.” 
          “I guess I never realized. I just got used to traveling alone. Speaking of, I should go. I’ll see you again.”
          “Yeah . . . ” Will stared at Jack’s retreating figure before shouting, “Wait!” Jack turned back, confusion evident. “Let me come with you.” Seeing the hesitation, he continued, “I won’t be any trouble. Besides, I’m stuck here. I don’t want this village to be my deathbed. And everyone needs company. We both gain something.” 
          There was a moment of silence before Jack turned away. “You don’t have to bring anything. I have enough.” 
          Will hurried to catch up. 
          The two traveled in silence before Jack spoke. They had long left the town. “I don’t remember my original name. The names other people called me took over. I can’t recall my past life. Of all the tales I’ve got, none are mine.” There was silence before he requested something. “Tell me a story.” He’d clearly never asked for what others asked him, the words foreign in his mouth. But Will wasn’t going to deny him. 
          “Which one?”
          “One I’ve never heard before.”
          “That’ll be hard.”
          “Try your best.”
          “Okay.” Will thought before thinking of the perfect one. “There was a man. He had no permanent home. What he did have was stories . . . ”