The Wanderer

The forest stretches forever. I’ve walked long enough to forget the shape of sunrise, long enough for my memories to fade into the same grey that coats the trees. Every trunk is brittle, leafless, identical. When the wind moves—if it ever truly does—it sounds like bones brushing together. I survive by habit. Scavenging fungus from dead bark. Drinking metallic water from shallow stone hollows. Sleeping curled beneath roots that feel like the ribs of a buried giant. Waking to the same silence, the same colorless world, the same question: Why am I still here? There is no horizon. No birds. No insects. No seasons. Just the forest, repeating itself like a punishment. Sometimes I think I’ve walked in a circle, but there are no landmarks to prove it. Sometimes I think the forest rearranges itself while I sleep. Sometimes I think it watches me. Today, the silence feels heavier. The trees lean closer, as if listening. I move carefully, stepping over cracked branches that crumble like old bones. My breath fogs in the cold air, then disappears instantly, swallowed by the stillness. I pause. There—between the trunks—something shifts. A flicker of movement. Too smooth to be an animal. Too deliberate to be the wind. I grip the rusted metal shard I use as a blade. My heartbeat echoes in my ears, loud enough to betray me. The forest seems to hold its breath. Then the movement stops. Nothing. Just grey. Just silence. Just the endless forest. But I know what I felt.