Jake woke before dawn, though he wasn't sure he had slept at all. His body felt heavy, as if the weight of the missing stones had settled into his bones. The forest outside remained unnervingly quiet.
No child. No hum. No shift in the air that signalled someone approaching.
He stepped outside and waited, arms wrapped around himself against a cold that wasn't physical. The silence pressed in, thick and unmoving. Even the sky seemed reluctant to brighten, the faint lines he had once relied on barely visible.
He tried to steady his breathing. The child had missed a day before, once, early on. But this felt different. This felt intentional. Or worse, like something had happened.
He forced himself to move. Sitting still only made the silence louder.
The bundle of stones on his back felt wrong again—unbalanced, incomplete. The broken ribbon tied to it brushed against his side with every step, a constant reminder of what he'd lost. He tightened the strap, but it didn't help. The weight wasn't physical. It was the knowledge that he had failed to protect something entrusted to him.
He walked toward the ridge where he had trained with the child. The path felt unfamiliar today, as if the forest had shifted in the night. The ground's pulse—usually steady, guiding—was faint, almost hesitant. Jake pressed his palm to the soil, hoping to feel the rhythm he had learned to trust.
Nothing.
Just cold earth.
He stood, brushing dirt from his hands, and kept walking.
At the ridge, the view stretched wide, but the land felt distant. The sky's lines were faint, flickering like dying embers. Jake squinted, trying to trace them, but they refused to settle into patterns herecognised.
He whispered into the wind, "Where are you?"
The forest didn't answer.
He turned to leave—and froze.
Someone stood at the edge of the trees. Not the child. Not the silent stranger from yesterday. This figure was smaller, wrapped in a dark cloak that hid their ribbons entirely. They watched him with an intensity that made his skin prickle.
Jake lifted his hand slowly, offering a simple greeting gesture. The figure didn't respond. They didn't move at all. They stood like a shadow pinned to the earth.
Jake tried again, pressing his palm to his chest, then outward. Honesty. Vulnerability.
Still nothing.
The figure tilted its head slightly, as if studying him. Jake felt a chill crawl up his spine. He had never encountered someone who refused gestures twice in a row. Even the silent stranger had offered a hum, a warning. But this figure gave nothing. No acknowledgment. No rejection. Just stillness.
Jake lowered his hand, unsure what to do. He didn't want to provoke anything. He didn't even know what counted as provocation here.
The figure finally moved—one slow step forward. Jake's breath caught. They raised a hand, but not in a gesture. Instead, they pointed at the broken ribbon tied to Jake's bundle.
Their voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper. "You're losing your threads."
Jake's heart lurched. It was the first spoken sentence he had heard in this world besides his own. The words felt heavy, deliberate, as if they carried more meaning than their simplicity suggested.
He swallowed. "I didn't mean to. It just… happened."
The figure's expression didn't change. "Things don't just happen here."
Jake felt heat rise in his chest. "The child didn't come today. I lost some stones. A ribbon snapped. I don't know what I'm doing wrong."
The figure stepped closer, their cloak brushing the ground. "Threads break when the rhythm breaks."
Jake frowned. "What rhythm?"
The figure tapped their chest once. "Yours."
Jake felt the words land like a stone dropped into deep water. He wanted to ask more, but the figure had already turned away, disappearing into the trees with a fluidity that made it impossible to follow.
Jake stood alone on the ridge, the wind brushing against him like a question he couldn't answer.
He walked back slowly, replaying the encounter in his mind; ("You're losing your threads"). The phrase echoed inside him, unsettling and true. He felt it—something inside him had slipped out of alignment. The rituals, the lessons, the gestures… they had given him structure. And now, without the child, without the rhythm of the land, he felt unmoored.
When he reached his shelter, he sat at the entrance, staring at the broken ribbon. He untied it from the bundle and held it in his hands. It felt fragile, like something that had once been alive but wasn't anymore.
He didn't write on the wall. He didn't have the clarity for that.
Instead, he whispered into the quiet, "Please come back."
The forest remained silent.
But somewhere deep within it, something shifted—soft, distant, like a breath drawn in the dark.