Off you go, down the twisting path, following Bradley's quickened pace. The world feels quieter now, yet heavier—like the forest itself is listening.
"Where's the rest of your family?" you ask, not out of nosiness but because… you need to understand. To stitch his story to your own somehow.
Bradley slows. His ears droop slightly. He looks down, and his voice comes out like gravel wrapped in shadow.
"The only family I have other than my sister is my dad. But he's gone. Captured. By humans."
You feel a chill crawl up your spine.
"My sister hated humans after that," he continues. "She wanted to eat all of them. But me… I just got scared. Really scared."
He pauses. The wind rustles overhead.
"When our dad didn't come home after dinnertime from hunting, we wandered around looking for him. Got trapped in the forest. We saw him in a truck, rolling away. He didn't see us."
His voice is tight now.
"Our sense of smell's only around five meters. Not like proper wolves. We couldn't track him. Then it rained, and our footprints were gone. Like we never existed there."
You slow your pace too. That image—footprints erased like memory—clings to your thoughts.
"I'm sorry," you whisper, your mind flashing to your own family. To dinners and laughter and the fear of losing something familiar forever.
Soon, you arrive at a clearing. Nestled between trees, partly buried under moss and leaves, is a small cottage—oddly clean, sturdy, and homey for a place seemingly forgotten by time.
Bradley pushes open the crooked door and beckons you inside.
"Make yourself comfortable," he says gently. "I'll get us tea. Biscuits too. They're forest-flavored—I'll let you guess what that means."
You smile faintly and begin to explore. The walls are lined with mismatched furniture, books that look handmade, and paintings that seem to shimmer if stared at too long. Everything smells of pine, cinnamon, and quiet stories.
Drawn toward the back, you enter a small bedroom. It's simple. Just a bed, a creaky desk, and one unusual feature: a woven artwork hanging on the wall, dangling from a string. It's colorful—reds, blues, and earthy tones wound in intricate patterns. But something's off.
You step closer.
The weave isn't flat. The edges curve slightly. Your fingers brush against it—and it shifts.
It opens.
Like a curtain. Or a door.
Behind it… darkness.
But not empty darkness.
The kind that hums.
The kind that waits.