Jake barely slept. Every time he drifted toward rest, the image of the silent stranger returned—those unmoving eyes, that refusal to gesture back. It gnawed at him in a way he couldn't shake. In this world, silence wasn't neutral. Silence meant something. And he didn't know what.
When morning finally arrived, the forest felt colder than usual. Not in temperature, but in tone. The air lacked its usual hum. Even the sky's faint lines seemed dull, as if the world itself were holding back.
The child still hadn't come.
Jake stepped outside, the bundle of stones tied awkwardly to his back. The knot he'd made yesterday felt clumsy, unreliable. He tugged at it, testing the tension. It held, but only barely. The missing stones left the weight uneven, pulling him slightly to one side. He hated the feeling. It made him feel crooked, unfinished.
He walked anyway.
He needed to move. Sitting still only made the silence louder.
The forest path he chose wasn't one the child had ever led him down. It curved sharply between tall, narrow trees whose bark shimmered faintly, like metal warmed by sunlight. The ground beneath them was soft, almost spongy, absorbing the sound of his footsteps. Jake felt as though he were walking through a place that didn't want to be disturbed.
Halfway down the path, he felt a sudden tug on his wrist.
He looked down.
One of his ribbons—the pale blue one tied during the sky lesson—had frayed overnight. A thin thread hung loose, swaying with each movement. Jake froze, heart thudding. He reached for it gently, trying to smooth it back into place.
The ribbon snapped.
It didn't fall dramatically. It didn't burst into light. It simply separated, drifting to the ground like a feather. But the moment it left his wrist, Jake felt something inside him shift. A subtle disorientation. A quiet loss.
He knelt and picked up the broken ribbon. It felt wrong in his hand—cold, lifeless. The sky above him seemed to dim further, as if the ribbon had been a thread connecting him to something he hadn't realized he depended on.
He tied the broken piece to the strap of his bundle, unsure what else to do. It hung there limply, a reminder of something he'd failed to protect.
He kept walking.
The path eventually opened into a clearing he didn't recognize. The air here felt heavier, thick with a tension he couldn't name. At the far edge of the clearing stood a structure—something between a shelter and a shrine. It was built from twisted branches and smooth stones, arranged in a pattern that made Jake's skin prickle. The design was too precise, too intentional.
Someone lived here.
Or had lived here.
He approached slowly; palms open in a gesture of respect. The clearing remained silent. No hum. No movement. No presence.
Until there was.
A figure stepped out from behind the structure. Taller than the child, taller than Jake. Their ribbons were darker, muted, almost grey. Their posture was rigid, shoulders squared, chin lifted slightly. They looked at Jake with an expression that wasn't hostile but wasn't welcoming either.
Jake lifted his hand and traced a small spiral in the air. A simple greeting. A safe one.
The figure didn't respond.
Jake tried again—this time pressing his palm to his chest, then outward. Honesty. Vulnerability.
Still nothing.
The figure's eyes flicked to the broken ribbon tied to Jake's bundle. Something in their expression tightened, almost imperceptibly. They stepped closer—not enough to threaten, but enough to make Jake's breath catch.
Jake lowered his hand slowly. He didn't want to provoke anything. He didn't even know what counted as provocation here.
The figure finally spoke—not with gestures, but with a single, low hum. It wasn't the communal hum Jake had heard in rituals. This one was sharper, almost like a warning.
Jake felt it in his chest, vibrating against his ribs.
The figure tapped their own wrist—where a ribbon should have been—and then pointed at Jake's broken one. The gesture was simple, but the meaning hit him hard.
You've lost something important.
Jake nodded, swallowing. He wanted to explain. He wanted to gesture back. But the figure had already turned away, disappearing behind the structure without another sound.
Jake stood alone in the clearing, the hum still echoing faintly inside him. He didn't know if the encounter had been a warning, a lesson, or something else entirely. But it left him with a cold certainty:
Something in this world had shifted.
And he was no longer moving through it with the same protection he once had.
He walked back to his shelter slowly, the broken ribbon brushing against his side with every step. When he arrived, he didn't write on the wall. He didn't have the words.
Instead, he sat at the entrance, watching the forest, waiting for the child.
But the forest remained silent.
And the child did not come.