In the silence, a man stood with a trembling child.
"Papa," the boy said.
He was four years old—soft-faced, shaking, yet holding onto his father with stubborn trust.
His small hand gripped the man's fingers as if letting go would make him vanish.
The man inhaled slowly.
A sheriff's badge rested on his chest.
He was tall, middle-aged, his face empty of expression. His eyes stayed fixed ahead as he walked.
The forest pressed in around them.
The child looked left, then right, fear rising in his eyes.
Still, his grip tightened.
His trust did not break.
They kept walking.
Time passed strangely.
The boy felt it before he understood it.
His father's face never changed.
"Papa," he said again, voice shaking.
"I'm scared." They walked longer.
Later, the sheriff stood inside his office, deputies gathered close.
The jungle loomed outside the windows.
"It saw me," he said quietly.
He swallowed and exhaled.
The deputies stared out into the trees.
From the edge of the forest, the child stood smiling.