I. The Nameless Trail
Josh knew he shouldn't be there. Duskwood Forest had no official trails—at least, none that appeared on the town maps. But there was this one: a thin line of mist hovering thirty centimeters from the ground, as if the earth itself were exhaling an invitation.
It was 11:42 PM.
The wind wasn't blowing. The leaves weren't falling. The world seemed to hold its breath. He walked. With each step, the notebook in his backpack grew heavier—not because of the paper, but because something inside him wanted to get out. When he saw the trees part, he knew he had arrived.
II. The Circle of Seven Stones
The clearing was smaller than he had imagined.
Seven stones, tall as children, arranged in a perfect circle. Covered in black moss and runes that seemed to move when not looked at directly.
In the center, a campfire.
But it wasn't an ordinary fire.
The flame was silvery-blue, almost translucent, and cast no shadow. It was as if the light had been stolen from somewhere else—from a sky that never existed. Around it, seated in silence, were the seven.
Chloe, Maya, Jake, Lily, Sam, Owen… and Ethan.
No one spoke when Josh entered. But everyone turned. Slowly. As if they had been waiting for him for centuries. Chloe stood up.
"You came," she said, unsurprised.
"Because I knew I had no choice."
Josh swallowed hard.
"I saw something at my window. Someone who… looked like me."
"It wasn't someone," corrected Maya, without taking her eyes off the flame. "It was what you will be."
"If you fail," Owen added.
"Enough," interrupted Chloe. "Today isn't about failures. It's about beginnings."
She nodded. Jake tossed a small cloth bag at Josh's feet.
"Open it."
Inside, a white powder, fine as snow, with an almost imperceptible sheen.
"Flour?" Josh asked.
"It's story dust," Lily whispered, her eyes fixed on the campfire. "Made from the ashes of burnt books, the bones of forgotten storytellers… and a little of the snow from the night the Storyteller first spoke."
"Before you tell," Ethan explained, looking directly at Josh for the first time, "you throw this into the flames."
"It's the price," Sam said excitedly. "The story needs something to live."
"And if I don't throw it in?"
"The flame goes out," Chloe replied. "And what's in the forest… gets you before dawn."
Josh looked at the bag. The dust trembled slightly. As if it had a pulse.
"Why me?"
"Because you weren't born here," Maya said. "Those born in Duskwood are marked from the cradle. You… were called."
"The Storyteller only calls those who have something true to tell," Ethan finished.
"And what is the Storyteller?"
Silence.
It was Chloe who answered, in a low, almost reverent voice:
"It's the hunger for imagination."
"It doesn't kill. It devours stories."
"But if the story is weak… it takes the soul that told it."
Josh felt a chill run down his spine.
"So… I have to tell a story?"
"Yes," said Chloe. "And we all have to listen."
"And we all have to approve."
"If even one person says 'no'… you don't get in."
"And the Storyteller takes you."
Josh looked at the flame. It pulsed. Once. Like a heart.
"And if I tell something… that isn't real?"
"It's no use," said Maya. "Here, only what is felt becomes a story. Lies… become screams."
Josh picked up the bag. He walked to the edge of the circle. Lily reached out and lightly touched his ankle.
"Don't look back when you throw," she whispered. "He's behind the trees. Always."
Josh took a deep breath.
And threw the powder onto the flames.
III. The Flame Answers
The dust didn't fall. It hung suspended for a second—as if time had stopped. And then…
WHOOSH.
The flame exploded high, but without heat. A column of blue and white light rose to the treetops, illuminating the forest as if it were midnight in a sunless world. And in the sky, for an instant, shapes appeared. Faces. Bodies. Shadows with arms too long. Eyes that didn't blink. It was the archive of stories told. All those that had been told there—good, bad, terrible—were recorded in the smoke. And now, they awaited the next.
Josh felt his throat dry. But also… something else.
A voice.
Not his.
From within the fire.
"Tell…"
And he began.
IV. Josh's Story — "The Lighthouse That Doesn't Shine"
Once upon a time, there was a lighthouse at the end of the world.
Not in a real sea—but in the sea that exists in dreams between two heartbeats. No one knew who built the lighthouse. Only that it was there, tall, white, with an iron staircase that creaked in the wind… even without wind. And at the top, a lamp. But the lamp never lit up. They said that if someone climbed up there and looked inside the glass… they would see what was waiting for them. Not what they feared. But what they secretly desired…
…even if they didn't know it. A boy named Elias went there. He was 12 years old and had lost his mother. He wanted to see her again. He climbed the steps. He reached the top. And he looked.
Inside the glass… there was no mother.
There was himself.
But not the 12-year-old Elias. It was a 30-year-old Elias. With empty eyes. With a crown of roots on his head. And he said:
"You came too early. It's not your turn yet. But I'm already here.
Because the desire to see you… created me."
Elias stepped back.
But the door had disappeared.
And the lighthouse…
…began to breathe.
The walls closed in.
The staircase turned into veins.
And the lamp…
…finally lit up.
But not with light.
With silence.
A silence so complete that Elias forgot his name.
Then, he forgot he had a mother.
Then, he forgot he was human.
And when the lighthouse was found weeks later…
…it was empty.
Except, on the top wall, there was a phrase written in dried blood:
"What wishes to find you…
…always finds you."
And sometimes, on moonless nights…
…people swear they see a 12-year-old boy
climbing a ladder that doesn't exist
towards a light that extinguishes everything.
Josh finished.
Silence fell like a stone. The flame returned to its normal size. But now, a darker blue—almost black. And in its center… a shadow. Tall. Faceless. With open arms.
The Storyteller.
Watching.
Approving.
Or… judging.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
The eyes of the seven were fixed on Josh.
And on their faces…
…there was no smile.
No fear.
Only expectation.
Josh waited.
His heart pounding so hard it felt like it wanted to burst from his chest.
Had it passed?
Or was he, at that very moment,
about to become
the next story?