Otter Creek And the book you write's magnificent

The tone with which she spoke suggested knowledge of the willow land, yet the name spoken was just as foreign as her first words. He raised a brow, turning the word over in his mind, only to decide that there was no possibility of that memory being wrong; Elysium, though presumably a place of willows, too, was not the land he sought. “I do not know what this Elysium place is,” he admitted, having no reason to mislead her; doing so would only be a waste of his own time, in the end, lengthening the distance between him and his birthplace.

“I’m searching for Marauder's Keep,” he further explained. “A different land of willows, perhaps—unless others came in and stole claim to the willows I seek.” But if that were to be the case, then there was no doubting the missing presence of those he once knew. Not a single one of them would have allowed the keep to be stolen right out from under them, after all. Meaning they either all perished or left to find greater lands, neither of which were particularly appealing to think about; the only one he wished never to see again was the woman to have birthed him, the thought of reuniting with her sickening, but there were others he did hope to see again. “Do you know of the keep?” he had to ask, he had to know. Were they but a thought now of what once was, present in not a single local mind?