Wind moved through the trees, carrying a low, uneven sound.
The man stopped.
His gaze lifted toward the house.
"…it's here."
Snow lay uneven across the clearing, caught along roots and stone where the wind had not reached. The path leading in had thinned into little more than suggestion.
Near the window, Moss stood.
The light within the house had not dimmed.
The man stepped forward.
"Move away from it."
Moss turned this time.
He raised a hand, one finger resting lightly against his mouth.
The man frowned.
"…what are you—"
The bell at his side gave a soft, uneven note.
His voice fell away.
He lifted his hand. The paper between his fingers trembled once before stilling.
The bell rang.
A thin line of light formed in the air.
It moved toward the window—
—and slowed.
It did not reach the house.
The line wavered, then broke apart without sound.
The paper slipped from his hand and fell into the snow.
Silence held.
Something stood beyond Moss.
Not near the house, but farther back, between the trees.
The shape did not settle into form.
Only the antlers held—wide, branching, catching what little light remained.
The man did not breathe.
The space between the trees felt wrong, as though depth had shifted.
Moss did not turn.
"Glow."
His finger lifted, pointing toward the window.
The man glanced that way.
When he looked back—
The space between the trees had not closed.
Inside the house, the light gathered.
The man's grip tightened around the staff.
He did not look away.
The light trembled, not outward, not reaching.
It did not spread.
It folded inward.
The light dimmed, not gone, only less.
The man stepped away from the window.
The door gave way when he pushed it.
The air inside had not moved. Dust lay where it had settled.
At the sofa, the remains rested, cloth and bone once held together. The hand lay turned slightly inward, a comb resting within it.
Moss stepped closer and reached for the man's wrist, not pulling, only guiding. The man did not resist.
His fingers brushed the comb. The wood was smooth, warmer than it should have been.
The air around it had not moved.
The dust was gone.
Nothing had changed.
The house stood where the trees thinned, where light reached late and left early. The path beyond it did not lead anywhere certain. It only continued.
The trees did not move.
Not with the wind.
The boy lay in the grass, looking up through the branches at the slow movement of clouds. The branches crossed above him, uneven in a way he did not notice.
He had been there long enough for the light to shift without him noticing.
Behind him, the door opened.
"It will be dark soon," his mother said.
He did not sit up. "What is it like?"
She waited. "What?"
"Outside."
Her gaze moved past him, toward the line where the trees gave way.
"Crowded," she said.
The boy smiled faintly. "Then why don't we go?"
"People need people," she said. "We don't need to belong to them."
He said nothing after that.
The sky moved.
The light changed.
Seasons passed, and the path remained.
---
He was older. He walked it without thinking, the trees opening slowly until the road beyond came into view. It carried sound and voices, movement, things that did not pause.
"Hey."
Someone waved him over. A boy, easy in the way he stood, as though he had always been there.
They spoke without purpose, walked without direction, and laughed once at nothing in particular. Time moved differently on the road.
"I'm leaving," the boy said one evening.
"Where?"
"Anywhere else."
"Why?"
"To earn. To see something new." He glanced at him. "You should too. People don't stay here. They go to find something."
"Like what?"
The boy shrugged. "Something better than this."
He thought about it longer than he meant to.
When he returned home, the light had already lowered. His mother stood near the table, her back half-turned.
"I want to go," he said.
"No."
"It's just to see—"
"No."
The word settled into the room.
"I've stayed," he said. "I've done what you asked."
Silence followed.
"I want to know what's out there."
Her hand tightened slightly against the wood. "You don't need it."
"I do."
The word came too quickly.
"I said no."
He left before the light was gone, not far, only past the trees where the house could no longer be seen. The forest held him for a while. When he returned, the house was quiet.
A bag rested near the door. Food had been wrapped beside it.
His mother sat at the table. She did not look at him.
"I'll come back," he said. "Every year."
She did not answer.
After a long moment, she said, "Go."
He did not stay.
The path took him, the same way it always had. This time, he did not return with it.
Seasons turned. The house remained.
The chair by the window stayed where it was.
He did not come back.
The first year passed quietly.
The second, less so.
By the third, she no longer sat as long.
By the fifth, she stood.
The house did not follow her.
The path did.
It did not turn.
Even when the land did.
At the first town, she asked. A name. Then another. Faces changed, but the answers did not. She moved on.
Golden Leaf.
Marren's Eve.
Teawe.
The names passed through her the way roads did, without holding.
"Have you seen him?"
She learned to ask without expecting anything in return.
Time thinned. Her steps slowed.
In the end, she did not leave the road. She sat where travellers passed, close enough to be seen, not close enough to be known.
Days moved around her. People came and went. She remained.
One morning, she did not stand.
Her hands rested in her lap, as they had before.
---
The road did not stop.
Far from it, a voice rose.
"A theft!"
The blow came before the words settled. He staggered, caught by hands that did not hold him gently. Voices gathered quickly, each one certain.
He turned once and saw the boy he had walked beside.
The one who had laughed.
The one who had told him to leave.
The boy did not speak.
He saw it then—
the pouch in the boy's hand.
The boy let it fall.
At his feet.
"I didn't—"
No one asked.
The cell closed. Time changed.
Hands took him where no one asked his name.
Only his worth.
Days became labour. Labour became years.
Names stopped mattering. He did not count the seasons anymore.
Only direction.
Home.
His hands worked. His body bent. Time took what it wanted and left the rest behind.
When they finally opened the gate, it was not out of kindness. He was simply no longer worth keeping.
They told him to go.
His hands were empty, except for one thing.
A comb.
Wood worn smooth, small, still wrapped.
Kept through years that did not return.
He stepped onto the road again, not far, only enough to begin.
The direction remained.
The room returned without sound.
The trees beyond the window stood as they had been.
Too still.
The man stood where he had been, his hand still resting against the comb.
Then his breath broke, just enough.
Something slipped loose, and a single drop fell, striking lightly against Moss's face.
"…I didn't know."
Moss did not answer.
He lifted his hand and tapped lightly against the man's wrist, then lowered it.
Outside, the light had begun to fall.
The house stood quiet among the trees.
***
By the time the fire was lit, the air had already settled. The wood took, the flame following without struggle.
The man stood near it, the bell at his side unmoving, then lifted it once and let it sound.
The note carried low and uneven.
It rang again, then a third time.
After that, he did not lift it.
The fire held.
Moss stood farther back, near the edge where the trees began, not stepping closer or looking away.
The smoke rose and did not linger.
The trees did not move to take it.