The Way Home
Marion staggered through the darkness. The forest lay still, only the rustling of leaves in the night wind accompanying him. His heart pounded wildly, sweat clinging to his forehead. Again and again he saw it in his mind's eye — her claws tearing through his skin, her teeth sinking into his throat.
But when he pressed his hands to his neck — nothing. No blood, no wounds. His body was unharmed, as if it had never happened. Only the pain lingered inside him, raw and burning like a phantom.
"I… died," he murmured. His voice sounded foreign in the silence. "But… I'm still alive."
He stumbled on until the first lights of the village flickered between the trees. Smoke drifted from chimneys, dogs barked, somewhere someone laughed. Life simply went on, as if nothing had happened.
He pushed open the gate to the yard. The house door stood half open; the hearth fire still burned inside. His mother bent over the table, hands dusted with flour as she kneaded dough. His father sat on the bench, gnawing on a piece of dried meat.
Marion stepped inside, his legs heavy as lead. No one jumped up. No one asked where he had been.
"You've skipped your fieldwork for a whole day," his father grumbled without looking up. "The weeds are growing over our heads."
Marion stared at him. "A… day?"
His mother glanced up briefly, wiping her hands on her apron. "Then start earlier tomorrow. It has to be done." No scolding, no concern. Just that indifferent, matter-of-fact statement.
He opened his mouth, wanting to speak. To tell them he had died. That the girl had betrayed him, torn him apart, killed him.
But the words stuck in his throat.
To them, he was simply… there.
Later, he lay on his straw mattress, staring at the ceiling. His parents snored in the next room, the fire crackling faintly. He felt empty. Empty — and at the same time strangely awake.
No one noticed. Not that I was gone. Not that I died.
The realization cut deeper than the wolf-girl's claws. Even his death had been meaningless to the world.
And yet… there was something else. A spark, small and barely tangible. If death cannot take me… maybe that is what makes me special.
Marion turned onto his side, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. His heart still pounded from the memories, and yet he could not stop thinking about her — her face, her last smile before she betrayed him.
It hurt. But it would not let him go.
The next morning, he rose early and went out to the field. Dew glittered on the blades of grass, the sky turning pale with dawn. He gripped the scythe, set it awkwardly. Every cut was uneven, every step laborious. But he kept going.
His father's words echoed inside him like a verdict: You didn't do your work.
And somewhere, softly, another voice whispered: You died. But you're still here.
Between the rustling of grass and the creaking of wood, he was alone with this secret. No one knew what had happened. No one suspected that he might be something special.
Everyday Life After the Betrayal
The days after his return blurred together like murky rain. Marion barely spoke. He rose early, cut grass, carried water, raked the yard. In the evenings he sat silently by the fire while his father chewed dried meat.
The villagers whispered when he passed.
"The boy is strange."
"Doesn't have his livestock anymore. Maybe it bit him."
Some children shouted after him, "Dog lover!"
Marion lowered his head, pretending not to hear. But inside, it burned.
At night he often lay awake, staring into the darkness. Again and again her face appeared before him — that smile just before she tore him apart. Her voice, cold and filled with contempt: You are nothing.
He pressed his hands over his ears as if he could force it away. But it remained. Always.
Once, in the field, a neighbor approached him — a broad-shouldered man with a weather-beaten face.
"Your parents are making fools of themselves. You'll never amount to anything. Not even a proper farmer."
Marion swallowed, wanted to say something — but only a soundless "Yes" escaped him. The man laughed and walked on.
Marion remained standing there, the scythe heavy in his hands. He felt the anger, but he could not give it words.
Weeks passed. The sun grew hotter, the fields drier. Sometimes Marion stood at the well, staring into the water and imagining simply jumping in, letting himself sink, never surfacing again.
But then he remembered the night with the wolf-girl. The pain. The death. And that afterward he had simply… been back here.
I die. But I come back.
The thought was like a thorn pushing deeper into him. He was not special. Not strong, not clever, not handsome.
Meanwhile, the village youth laughed in the streets, boasted about girls, shoved one another playfully. Marion stood at the edge, invisible as before. No girl looked at him. No boy called him over.
He was a shadow again.
A Name That Wasn't One
Summer had come. The fields stood tall, and the village filled with the buzzing of flies and the laughter of youth. For most, it was the most beautiful time of the year. For Marion, it only meant longer hours in the fields — and more moments standing at the edge, watching.
But there was her.
A girl from the village, with a smile that could silence even the sweating farm boys. Her hair gleamed in the sunlight, her eyes bright and clear like water. She wore simple dresses, yet whenever she lifted a jug at the well, everyone looked.
Marion did too.
He watched her secretly — when she laughed, when she spoke with her friends, when she ran through the lanes. Each time, his heart pounded as if she were about to look at him.
But she never did.
Once, he gathered his courage. He stepped closer as she stood at the well, pulling up the bucket.
"Do you want some help?" he managed to say.
She turned toward him — and her expression was friendly, but empty. "Thanks… um… what was your name again?"
"M-Marion."
"Oh, right." She gave him a fleeting smile, then turned away again and resumed chatting with her friends as if he had never been there.
The laughter of the other girls prickled in his ears, stabbing like needles. He turned around, pretending to head back to the field. In truth, he could have screamed.
That evening he lay on his straw mattress, staring at the ceiling.
She doesn't even know my name.
The thought gnawed at him, burned inside him. He imagined what it would be like if she looked at him — only him. If she called him by name, didn't overlook him like everyone else.
But he knew: it was an illusion. Like so many things in his life.
The days passed, and each time he saw her, he wavered between longing and bitterness. He helped with the hay, chopped wood, carried water — and she was always somewhere nearby, unreachable, laughing with the others.
His heart raced when she brushed past him by accident, when she murmured a casual "Thanks," when she gave him a glance that meant nothing.
And in quiet moments he asked himself: Am I cursed to always be invisible?
One evening, as he stood at the edge of the field wiping sweat from his forehead, he heard the village bell toll.
A dull, heavy sound that tore through the air.
At first he thought it was only a signal to gather — perhaps a festival. But then he saw the faces of the others. Rigid. Alarmed. Searching.
Dogs began barking.
A cold wind swept through the lanes.
And on the horizon, something dark crept across the fields.