The forest was as cold as Ren remembered it, and this figure stood before him.
'Poor little soul...You're trembling. Even now, ones body knows what its mind refuses to accept. I know you're tired…'
Ren said nothing in return, his fingers only tightening around the dagger's hilt.
Her form drifted closer.
'I can give you rest...Not just peace—rest. No more spilled blood. No more running…No more crying when you think you're alone.'
Ren lowered his head, refusing to look at the void.
'I remember your mother's voice. I can speak it, the lullaby she hummed when the bruises were fresh…When your father's voice still rattled through those thin walls. Soft little notes to keep her hands from shaking.' Her tone had gentled even further. '...Don't you miss her?'
Ren clenched his jaw tight, forcing himself to remain silent.
'The way she held you close even when she was afraid. The way she smiled through the pain just to comfort you…' Her smoke-like hands brushed down his cheeks. 'You were so small, so sick, so…fragile. Every night made her fear you wouldn't wake the next morning. But she loved you through all of it. She never stopped...' Her form leaned in closer. 'I can bring her back.'
Slowly, he lifted his gaze to the faceless void before him.
"I...I will kill you." Ren stated in a quiet tone. A promise meant only for her to hear. "I don't care how long it takes. How many times I fall...If I am torn apart over and over...With my own hands, I'll kill you."
The form did not flinch, only watching his anger form—if watching was even the right word. The world around them grew so silent, all Ren could hear was the drumming of his own heart. Then the form began to unravel, slipping away at its edges.
'Poor little soul, carrying so much weight...For a boy who was never meant to stand.'
And just like that—it vanished.
The painful groans rushed back into the forest.
The cold wind returned, settling deep within his bones.
In that moment, Ren couldn't breathe. He shoulders sagged forward, and his grip loosened around the dagger.
It had taken everything not to listen. Not to lean into the voice, and let it lull him into believing.
'It knew things it shouldn't have...Things I buried so deep that I revolt the idea to touch them anymore.'
Ren lifted a hand to his face, fingertips brushing over where the void's touch had been. The false warmth still lingered—like a curse.
And beneath that lie...shame.
Part of him still wanted to believe she could bring his mother back.
That somehow in this twisted world, comfort could exist without a cost.
But that wasn't true.
"How would I even kill something like that..." Ren muttered, looking down at his makeshift dagger. "That form? Does it even bleed?"
Then, his legs began to move.
'I know you're tired...'
Its whispers echoed through his mind.
"I never asked for this."
The more he denied it, the more he realized that wasn't true.
He had asked—every time he stood back up. Every time he denies the voice's offer. He is choosing to carry the burden.
His mother's love.
His father's hatred.
A recent promise of vengeance.
The fear of becoming something worse.
Because if he dropped it—if he gave in—there would be nothing left of him.
What would be left?
Another wandering corpse under the crimson skies?
Ren kept moving forward. There was no telling what was ahead, but only what awaited him if he turned back.
'...carrying so much weight...For a boy who was never meant to stand."
Her words weren't wrong. Ren wasn't built for this...
His body had been breaking since childhood—lungs too weak, bones too brittle. In and out of the hospital at all times. He was the sick one. The quiet one. The one who couldn't run too fast or breathe too deep.
Ren remembered lying in bed, the world reduced to ceiling cracks and fevered dreams.
While downstairs, the walls growled with his father's shouting.
And his mother...She would see him to bed soon after—hands trembling, humming softly under her breath. Much too quiet for the storm below to hear. She pressed a cool cloth to his forehead. And sung a lullaby like she believed sound alone could hold their world together.
Ren stumbled over a gnarled root, barely catching himself.
The voice offered rest. That was the cruelest part. Not peace, nor salvation.
Rest...
A part of him—raw and silent—had wanted to say yes.
A world without choking on dirt and blood. A world where he could lie down and stay down.
But then what?
Nothing but becoming another piece of this forest.
He couldn't let that happen. Not when he still remembered his mother's face. She was so kind, soft when the world was cruel.
She sang even when she had nothing left to give. And that thing—whatever it was—had dared to wear her voice.
"She is not..." He whispered. "Not you voice to wear."
The next time he met that form, he wouldn't tremble. He would would remember who he was. What he carried.
The forest blurred as memory pulled him in.
He was eight years old.
The world was smaller then—just his bedroom, a narrow bed, and the ache in his chest.
The damp blankets.
The raw coughing.
The loneliness.
Then, footsteps—soft against hardwood.
The bedroom door opened, and his mother slipped inside.
"Hey, honey…" She whispered, her voice always softened after an argument. "You still awake?"
Ren blinked up at her with those glass-like eyes.
"I had a bad dream," He whimpered. "And my chest hurts."
"I know, sweetheart." She sat beside him, hands trembling as she brushed his hair back. "You've been brave all day, haven't you?"
He caught her sleeve. "Where's father?"
She hesitated, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.
"He went out for a bit."
Bruises bloomed beneath her collarbone, half-hidden by her cardigan.
Turning her head, she tried to hide it—but Ren always noticed.
"I-I'm...sorry I got sick again." Ren whispered. "If I didn't—"
"Ren, don't say that." She cupped his face. "You've done nothing wrong."
"But father said—"
"I don't care what he said!" Her voice rose, then softened again. "Sweetheart, you aren't to blame when things go bad...Alright?"
"Mama..." Tears welled in his eyes. "I-I just want you to okay."
She leaned down and kissed his forehead.
"Sleep now...I'll hum, like always."
She tucked the blanket under his chin and began the lullaby—no words. Just sorrow turned into sound.
Ren closed his eyes to her voice. He never wanted to sleep, wanting that song to last forever.
And in a way, it did. Because when he woke that next morning—she was gone.
Back in the forest, dead leaves crunched beneath his boots.
"You sang to me even when breaking inside. You left because I wasn't enough. Because I kept getting sick. You thought you couldn't protect me anymore. I'm sorry mother..."
He swallowed the ache down and kept walking—toward whatever waited for him next.