Guslar, a relic of the ancient Slavic pagan tribe, is believed to be over a century old, though none can confirm his exact age. Time has etched deep wrinkles into his skin, and his once vibrant eyes now peer out from beneath heavy, furrowed brows. His mouth, toothless and sunken, remains silent, for Guslar has been rendered mute by the relentless march of years. Despite his advanced age and frailty, he is a familiar figure in the village square, where he sits on a worn wooden stool, cradling an ancient one-stringed instrument crafted from the wood of the sacred forest. The instrument, as old and weathered as Guslar himself, resonates with a haunting melody as he plucks its string with gnarled fingers. Though he attempts to sing, no sound emerges from his throat, save for the occasional raspy breath. Villagers whisper that his muteness is a blessing, for he was said to be a terrible singer in his youth. Yet, there is a serene peacefulness about Guslar, a gentle spirit that seems to transcend the mockery and indifference he faces from the community. He is a man out of time, a living bridge to the old ways, yet he remains unaligned, neither seeking to change nor to be changed by the world around him. His simple desire is to share the music of his ancestors, a wish that remains unfulfilled as the villagers see him more as a source of amusement than a keeper of tradition. Nevertheless, Guslar persists, his daily ritual in the square a testament to his resilience and dedication to the melodies of the past. His life is a quiet battle against the erosion of memory and respect, a struggle that finds its resolution not in victory, but in the enduring act of remembrance through his music.