The leaf drifted steadily, cutting through the river without sound.
Water rushed beneath them, unseen yet constantly felt, its presence heavier than its noise. No one looked down for long, and no one let their gaze linger where reflections waited. The river moved forward without hesitation, and with it, their thoughts were forced to follow.
Fear did not press from one direction alone. It seeped in through silence, through breath, through the awareness that something ancient flowed beneath them and did not care whether they crossed safely or not.
One of the younger hunters broke the rhythm first, his voice low, almost apologetic for existing.
"So… the dead can listen?"
The question hovered briefly, fragile and exposed. No one laughed. No one scolded him immediately. Fear, after all, often asks questions before it screams.
"If that's true," he continued after a swallow, "then what's the point of talking at all? If they can hear us… they already know everything."
