The rooster crowed before the first trace of light brushed the rooftops of Ashwood. Darius stirred beneath his blanket, groaning as the stiffness of yesterday's work tugged at his shoulders. His room smelled faintly of smoke and old pine, the hearth still carrying the ghost of last night's fire. The boy rubbed his face, hair mussed in every direction, and sat up slowly, blinking against the dim gray of morning.
He listened. The quiet stretched long, broken only by the distant shuffle of his father already moving about the yard. Somewhere, a cart wheel creaked as a neighbor rolled into the square. The village always woke early, as if every person bore some unspoken duty to greet the dawn before it could fully settle.
Darius dressed quickly, tugging on a coarse shirt and trousers patched in two places along the knee. His palms brushed the rough fabric, familiar and almost comforting in their worn texture. Stepping outside, the morning air bit at his skin, crisp and damp from the night dew. The fields glistened faintly in the early light, blades of grass jeweled with moisture.
"About time you woke," his father's voice rumbled from the yard. Halden, broad-shouldered and bearded, stood by a bucket, scrubbing mud from the hoe's metal head. His forearms flexed with each stroke, corded with the quiet strength of years in the soil.
Darius forced a crooked smile. "You beat the sun up again."
"That's how the sun knows where to shine," Halden grunted, though the corner of his mouth twitched with humor. He nodded at the chicken coop. "Feed them, then fetch water. We'll need a strong start before the heat rises."
Darius obeyed, grabbing the grain sack. The chickens clucked eagerly, wings flapping as they pecked at the feed. Their feathers brushed against his hands, soft and erratic, and for a moment he found himself grinning despite the weight of the chores. Ordinary, repetitive, yes—but it was his rhythm, the way the days of Ashwood flowed.
Afterward, he trudged to the well with a wooden bucket. The rope creaked as he lowered it, the splash echoing faintly from below. Drawing water always made his shoulders ache, but he welcomed the ache—it was honest, unlike the gnawing tension that had lingered in him these last weeks, the kind he couldn't put into words.
By the time he returned, the sun had finally crept above the tree line, brushing the forest in shades of amber and gold. Ashwood lay spread before him—its cottages with mossy roofs, the smoke from their chimneys rising like thin threads into the sky. Children's laughter rang faintly as they chased each other near the square, their breath puffing in the cool air. The smell of bread drifted from the baker's hut, rich and heavy, tugging at his stomach.
For all its simplicity, the village breathed like a living thing, each sound and scent weaving together into something almost comforting. Almost.
Because always, beyond the cottages, the forest loomed. Its trees were too tall, their shadows too deep, as if the woods had secrets it refused to share. Darius' gaze lingered on the treeline, and a faint chill skittered along his spine.
"Darius," his father called. "Mind your work. The forest will still be there tomorrow."
The boy tore his eyes away and set the bucket down. His father never scolded harshly, but that gentle reminder carried weight. Everyone in Ashwood spoke lightly of the forest—as if ignoring its presence might keep its mysteries at bay.
They worked the fields until noon. The sun bore down, sweat prickling at Darius' back, the soil clumping under his nails as he tugged weeds and loosened roots. His father's steady rhythm kept them both in time—strike, dig, pull, rest. It was exhausting, yet strangely grounding. The smell of earth clung to him, heavy and raw, mixing with the salt of sweat on his skin.
At midday, they returned home for stew his mother had set simmering since dawn. The broth carried the tang of herbs, carrots soft enough to fall apart on his tongue. Darius savored every bite, feeling warmth spread into his chest. His younger sister, Lira, chattered about the wildflowers she had gathered by the riverbank, her voice quick and full of delight.
It was the kind of ordinary moment that felt timeless. Yet even here, beneath the laughter and clatter of bowls, Darius caught himself glancing at the shuttered window, where a draft seemed to slip through the cracks.
That night, long after the village quieted and the hearth had burned low, Darius lay awake. The blanket scratched faintly at his chin, and every creak of the wood above made his ears twitch. Sleep pulled at him, heavy as stone, yet his mind refused to sink fully. He heard it again—the faintest murmur of voices outside, drifting through the stillness like whispers carried on the wind.
"…another gone…"
"…forest took him…"
Darius' heart thudded. He held his breath, straining. The whispers faded, replaced by the lonely rustle of leaves outside his window.
He shut his eyes, willing the unease away. Ashwood was safe. Ordinary. He told himself this over and over until at last, weariness claimed him.
But deep in the quiet, where his thoughts blurred with dreams, the forest seemed to breathe.
And it was listening.