The room of young Anthony Winsor was a cold, fragranced, ancient place within an old house atop a hill.

Ancient indeed was the house, but not Anthony himself.

He was a young child who waited constantly and frantically for his mother and father. He lived in ancient England, waiting since he was about five years old. And now, he was about twenty-eight years old, or at least he thinks so, since he could never count how many days had passed, but it must have been a large amount.

Anthony himself was a very slim boy, with curly, blonde hair, and blue eyes. His voice was soothing, but he...