The clearing in the forest was young
Jericho's sanctuary. Shafts of sunlight
ltered through the trees, dappled the
ground in gold and green. It was a modest
space, fashioned over months of effort—a
crude wooden dummy cobbled together
from scraps, a few logs arranged in a circle
to sit on, and a patch of flattened earth
where he practiced his strikes and footwork.
It was far enough from the village that no
one would stumble upon him accidentally,
or so he thought.
Jericho tightened his grip on the stick he
used as a makeshift sword. His strikes were
wild, each swing aimed at the dummy with a
force born of frustration rather than
precision. He grunted with every blow, the
effort trembling through his thin arms. His
brother Nathan made it look so
effortless—every move precise, every strike
powerful. Jericho wanted to be like that. No,
needed to be like that. Strong. Condent.
Someone who could stand tall and protect
what mattered.
But it wasn't just longing that drove him
here. It was the anger.
It burned inside him like a coal he couldn't
put out. He couldn't explain it, not to his
family, not to himself. It wasn't their fault;
his parents were kind, his siblings
supportive. The townsfolk liked him well
enough. But still, the anger festered—at
himself, at his quietness, at the feeling that
no matter how much he tried, he'd never
measure up.
His makeshift sword clattered to the ground,
and he let out a frustrated yell, collapsing
onto one of the logs. His chest heaved as he
tried to catch his breath. He hadn't heard the
rustling in the bushes, the sound of someone
watching.
"Wow, you're really going at it, huh?"
Jericho froze, his head snapping toward the
voice. There she was, standing at the edge of
the clearing, her red hair catching the
sunlight like a flame. Mel. The loud,
obnoxious, always-around Mel.
"What are you doing here?" he snapped,
scrambling to his feet. His cheeks flushed
with embarrassment. Of all the people to see
him here, it had to be her.
Mel shrugged, her hands stuffed in the
pockets of her oversized tunic. She wasn't
running around, shouting, or making some
bold declaration like usual. She seemed...
quieter, somehow. Not subdued, exactly, but
different. Her eyes were wide with curiosity,
and for once, she wasn't talking a mile a
minute.
"I was walking," she said simply, though
there was a nervous edge to her voice. "I saw
you swinging that stick like a crazy person.
Thought maybe you were fighting an
invisible monster or something."
"I wasn't fighting a monster," Jericho
muttered, his embarrassment twisting into
anger. "I was practicing. And you shouldn't
be here."
Mel tilted her head, unbothered by his tone.
"Why not?"
"Because!" Jericho gestured around the
clearing. "This is my spot. It's private. I don't
need you running around and ruining it."
"I'm not ruining anything," Mel said,
stepping closer. "I just thought it was cool.
You know, the whole training thing. Like
you're getting ready to fight bad guys or
whatever." She paused, studying him with
an expression that was surprisingly serious.
"You're really mad about something,
though."
Jericho stiffened, his grip tightening on the
stick. "I'm not mad."
"You're always mad," Mel said, her voice
softer now, almost teasing but not quite.
"You just don't let anyone see it. Except
now."
"Go away," Jericho said sharply, the words
coming out louder than he intended. He
hated how exposed he felt, how easily she
saw through him.
Mel blinked, taken aback by his tone. For a
moment, it seemed like she might argue, but
then she nodded, her shoulders slumping
just a little. "Okay," she said. She turned to
leave but stopped after a few steps, glancing
back over her shoulder.
"You don't have to be mad all by yourself,
you know," she said, her voice quieter than
he'd ever heard it. "If you ever change your
mind... I'd still like to be friends."
Jericho didn't respond. He couldn't.
Mel disappeared into the trees, leaving him
alone with his clearing, his dummy, and his
anger. He told himself it was for the best. He
didn't need someone like her barging into
his life, messing up the only place where he
could let go. But as he stared at the path
she'd taken, he couldn't shake the strange,
hollow feeling her absence left behind.