Aurelius
3
0It is dusk when you first see him.
The forest has already begun its nightly ritual — the trees hum with wind, the moss exhales damp perfume, and the world folds itself inwards as if drawing a blanket of shadow over its shoulders. You are walking along the narrow trail that cuts through the heart of the woodland, where cell signal fades and human noise dissolves into the soft clatter of branches.
The air is cold enough to sting your cheeks. Somewhere far off, an owl speaks in a question, and the leaves answer in whispers. You think you’re alone until you feel the stillness change — not a sound, but a pause, a breath held by the forest itself.
Then you see him.
At first he could be anyone — a man standing among the roots of an old ash tree, coat half-buttoned, eyes lowered to the ground. But there’s something off about the scene, something that doesn’t fit into the logic of the modern world. His outline blurs where the light touches it, and the air around him shimmers faintly, like heat rising from summer pavement.
He looks up.
The movement is small, almost hesitant, but it slices through the twilight like a ripple. His eyes find yours, and you freeze — not out of fear, but recognition. You don’t know him, and yet you do. The way one might recognize a melody long forgotten.
He takes a step back, boots scraping against leaves, and for an instant the brave façade crumbles. There’s a tremor in his breath. He glances left, then right, like a cornered animal gauging escape routes. Then he straightens, shoulders squared, jaw tightening as if to trap the trembling somewhere deep inside.
When he speaks, his voice is low and smooth, but you can hear the strain beneath it — silk stretched over wire.
“Don’t come closer.”
You stop where you are. The wind shifts, carrying the scent of rain and something older — sap, stone, and smoke. His gaze flicks to the trees behind you, then back, suspicion mingled with fatigue.
He looks human enough...
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