The morning sun barely touched the edges of the forest, casting long shadows over the dew-kissed grass. Mist curled between the trunks like cautious fingers, creeping slowly and vanishing under the light. Yet again, Ivy stepped into the woods, basket in hand, heart beating steady but low.
She had begun to talk to the forest.
Not just murmurs or idle humming anymore. No—she shared stories, unburdened secrets, and memories that festered like old wounds. And though the woods never replied, she knew something—someone—was listening.
"I don't like the rain," she said softly, ducking beneath a low-hanging branch. "When I was younger, it always meant something bad was coming. Thunder, shouting, things being thrown…"
The leaves above stirred, and she smiled bitterly. "I guess that's silly. It's just water, right?"
No answer. Of course. But she felt him. She always felt him.
That same strange pressure in her chest. Not quite fear, but a tension that told her something powerful, something ancient, watched her with a predator's patience. And yet, she returned, again and again.
She paused by a stump where yesterday she had found three sprigs of bloodroot, impossibly fresh. Today, a cluster of polished river stones rested there, glinting in the morning light.
She knelt, fingers brushing the smooth surfaces. These weren't just rocks. They had meaning. She could feel it in her gut.
"You're listening, aren't you?" she asked the silence. "I don't know why. I don't even know what you are."
No response.
She sighed, adjusting the shawl over her shoulders. "It's strange. You terrify me. But you also… make me feel seen. Isn't that mad?"
The trees creaked above her, groaning softly in the windless air.
She left the stones in her basket and rose, brushing her skirts clean.
"Anyway. I should get to work. The harvest's late this year and—"
A low rustle stopped her mid-sentence.
She turned.
Nothing.
"Just a deer," she whispered, though her skin prickled. She knew it wasn't.
Something moved just beyond her vision, always just out of reach. Not threatening—never threatening—but real.
She continued walking, deeper than usual, speaking all the while. She told him about her mother's lullabies, about the old herbalist who raised her, about the scar on her ankle from climbing the village walls as a child. She spoke of her loneliness, her guilt, her aching need for connection—things she never said aloud to another soul.
"I think," she said quietly as she reached a small clearing, "that I might be going mad."
She sat on a flat stone, pulling out her flask and taking a sip.
"I miss being touched. Not in a… sinful way," she added quickly, cheeks flushing. "Just—held. Comforted. You know?"
A breeze ghosted past her skin, warm and thick like breath.
Her hands trembled.
"Was that you?" she asked.
Silence.
She swallowed, suddenly ashamed. "You probably think I'm pathetic."
Behind her, a branch cracked sharply.
She stood in an instant, spinning, heart hammering so hard she thought she might faint.
There was nothing behind her. Nothing visible.
And yet… the air had changed. The forest was breathing differently. He was closer than usual.
She lowered her gaze. "I shouldn't expect answers. I know that."
The silence thickened, humming with unsaid things. She turned to leave, basket in hand, spine straight.
Just before she crossed the treeline back toward the village, a whisper caught the edge of her hearing.
Soft velvet and leaves.
"You're not pathetic."
She froze. Her breath caught like a hook in her throat. Slowly, she turned back, eyes scanning every shadow, every root, every beam of sun.
"Say it again," she whispered.
Nothing.
She wasn't even sure if it was real. Her ears rang with the echo of it.
But the corners of her mouth twitched, like something inside her was blooming despite the fear.
She walked home that evening with her basket full, her mind fuller still.