The forest always smelled different after sunrise. Warmer, more alive. The sharp morning dew faded, replaced by the scent of moss, damp bark, and something older—something hidden deep in the soil.
Mike moved carefully through the underbrush, his worn boots barely making a sound. He had left before anyone in the house was awake. Even Steve wouldn't be up for another hour at least. With his satchel slung over his shoulder and his journal tucked inside, he followed the winding deer trail that curled along the ridge.
He wasn't just exploring this time. He was tracking.
It took nearly an hour of slow movement before he found it—the odd patch of moss he'd seen the day before. It was nestled beneath a crooked ash tree, roots gnarled like the fingers of an old man. The moss still looked wrong. It formed a near-perfect square, the edges too clean, the center slightly sunken.
Mike crouched beside it, brushed his fingers across the surface, and felt it give way.
A hollow sound echoed beneath.
He sat back, heart thudding in his chest.
"Not natural," he murmured.
With a carved stick from his satchel, he pried at the moss. It peeled away like skin from a fruit, revealing a smooth, flat stone slab covered in faint symbols—curved lines, dots, and spirals that glowed faintly in the low light. At its center, a shallow groove shaped like a curled vine.
Mike traced the groove with one finger. The stone clicked.
A hiss of air escaped.
Then, silently, the slab slid to the side.
A dark opening yawned below him.
Mike stared at it, pulse racing. Every instinct told him to turn back.
But he didn't.
He lowered himself into the hole, feet first, feeling for a foothold. Cool air rushed up from below. It smelled of wet stone, metal, and something strange—almost sweet, almost electric.
His boots touched earth. A tunnel stretched out before him, framed in roots that pulsed faintly with light. He walked forward, slow and cautious, the air thick and heavy around him. As the tunnel curved downward, he caught a sound—like wind whispering through reeds.
"Return what was taken…"
Mike stopped.
"Hello?" His voice echoed oddly, bouncing in several directions at once.
The whispering stopped.
He pressed on.
The tunnel opened into a chamber—low-ceilinged and circular, its walls covered in glowing moss. At the center lay a skeleton. It sat slumped against the far wall, its arms still wrapped around a bundle of cloth and leather.
Mike's breath caught. He approached slowly.
The remains were old. Very old. The leather armor was cracked and faded, the bones yellowed with age. But cradled in the figure's bony fingers was a shortbow—plain, sturdy, and oddly unblemished by time. Next to it, a quiver of arrows with blackened fletching.
At the figure's side was something else.
A device. Smooth and round, no bigger than a loaf of bread, it pulsed with faint blue light. Symbols etched across its surface matched those from the stone slab above.
Mike reached toward it—and hesitated.
He looked back at the skeleton.
"What happened to you?" he whispered.
No answer, of course.
He took the bow first. It felt… right in his hands. Balanced. Familiar, even though he'd never seen it before. The leather grip fit perfectly against his palm.
Then, cautiously, he picked up the device.
The moment his fingers touched it, the light brightened. The whisper returned.
"Return what was taken…"
Mike's head swam. He staggered back, clutching the device to his chest.
Then silence.
No wind. No voices. Only the quiet sound of his own breathing and the crackling of mosslight.
He tucked the bow and device into his satchel, offered the skeleton a moment of silence, and turned to leave.
As he climbed out of the tunnel and replaced the moss-covered stone, one thought lingered:
He hadn't found this place by accident.
Something had wanted him to.