Teo didn't move.
Across the trickle, the bone bundle hung from the sapling like a pale little warning bell. Beneath it, the three marks sat pressed into the mud—fresh in a way that made his throat tighten.
He kept his eyes on them because looking into the trees felt like inviting them to look back.
The word came again.
Not loud.
Not far.
Close enough that it slid between trunks like it belonged there.
A single syllable in a language he didn't know—soft, careful. Said the way you speak when you're trying not to disturb others around you.
Teo's muscles locked.
His tongue went dry.
His first instinct was to answer, because that's what your body does when someone calls.
No.
He clamped his mouth shut and breathed through his nose, slow.
The pressure didn't spike. Not yet.
The world waited.
The word came a third time.
Same tone. Same distance. Same patience.
A test.
Teo swallowed and felt his throat click. The sound made him flinch.
He tightened his grip on the stick until his knuckles turned white. The stick wasn't a weapon. It was a way to keep his footing.
He took one slow step back from the trickle.
Mud sucked at his boot. He hated the sound.
He took another step back, placing his foot on a root—higher ground, drier.
The voice didn't follow.
It didn't retreat either.
The word came again, and this time there was the faintest change in it—like the speaker was getting tired of asking nicely.
Teo's jaw clenched.
His chest tightened.
He didn't want to be rude to the only proof of another person in this place.
But he didn't know what rude meant here.
He didn't know what answering bought you.
He knew what it could cost.
His lips opened—not to talk, just to pull a bigger breath—
—and the quiet gained weight instantly.
Not a roar.
Not a slam.
A pressure shift so clean it felt mechanical. His ears filled, the way they did when you drove up a steep hill too fast. The hair on his arms lifted.
Teo snapped his mouth shut and breathed through his nose hard.
The pressure eased, but not all the way.
His stomach dropped.
I did that.
Something in the undergrowth went still.
Not just stopped moving.
It seemed to go still like it was listening.
Teo backed away another step. Then another, angling up the ridge, using roots as stepping stones, keeping his boots off the mud.
Behind him, the voice didn't call out a name.
It called the word again—closer now.
And under it, Teo heard something worse than footsteps.
Breathing.
Not his.
Soft. Controlled. Through a nose.
Whoever it was, they knew the rule too.
Teo stopped behind a thicker trunk, using it as a shield even though he knew it wouldn't defend him.
He peeked around it.
Across the trickle, the undergrowth layered on itself—ferns, vines, shadows.
And then he saw it.
Not a face.
Not a full body.
A hand.
Pale knuckles. Dirt under the nails. Fingers curled around a branch. The wrist disappeared into dark cloth, and around it was a thin cord wrap—tight, deliberate—like a wrist wrap.
On the cord, a small bone charm hung—no bigger than a pebble.
It didn't sway.
Nothing here moved unless it had to.
The hand held still for a long beat.
Then it slid back into the green like it had never existed.
Teo's breath hitched.
He swallowed it down.
No mames…
His heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might betray him.
He looked down, forcing his eyes onto something he could control.
The book was tucked under his flannel.
He hurriedly pulled it out, keeping it low, and opened it carefully. The dim canopy gray was enough to see if he held it close.
Unknown script.
Unknown script.
A page with smudged ink, like someone's thumb had dragged through wet words.
He flipped again, searching the margins.
His hands shook.
He told them not to.
Calma…
He found the last English notes he remembered:
• Still water is a mouth.
• Markers are agreements.
He turned one more page—
—and stopped.
Because there was writing in the margin that he hadn't seen before.
Not in the unknown script.
In rough English, slightly smeared as if the ink had been laid down fast.
Teo stared until his eyes burned.
Don't answer them with words.
If you must answer, use rhythm.
His throat tightened so hard it hurt.
He looked up from the page, scanning the trees again.
Nothing moved.
No footsteps.
No sound.
Just that sense of the world holding its breath with him.
His two fingers twitched against the bottom edge of the book—index and middle together.
Tap… tap…
He froze.
He hadn't meant to do it.
But the words had planted the idea in his muscles.
Use rhythm.
The voice came again, closer than before. Not angry. Not friendly.
Patient.
Same word.
Same test.
Teo kept his mouth closed.
He breathed through his nose.
Slow.
He raised his hand and rested his palm against the trunk beside his face.
And with the smallest movement he could manage, he tapped two fingers against bark.
Tap. Tap.
The sound was tiny. Almost nothing.
But in the forest, almost nothing could still be heard.
Teo waited.
The pressure in the quiet shifted—just a hair. Like a weight moved from one shoulder to the other.
Across the trickle, the brush moved.
A human-height shape leaned forward just enough that Teo saw a sliver of dark cloth and the faint pale gleam of that cord-wrapped wrist.
Then it froze.
Teo held still, heart trying to punch through his ribs.
He didn't tap again.
He didn't breathe wrong.
He just waited.
A soft reply came from the trees.
Not a word.
Two taps—faint, distant—answering back from the woods on the far side.
Tap. Tap.
Teo's skin prickled.
Someone had repeated his tapping—the rhythm.
He stared into the green, throat tight, and the thought landed heavy and clear:
This wasn't a rescue.
It was an introduction.
And introductions, in this world, were agreements.
Teo's stomach rolled as the quiet settled around him—watchful, satisfied.
He lowered his hand, still breathing through his nose. Still silent.
Because somewhere between those two taps, he'd made his first response.
He'd accepted the first agreement.
And he still didn't know what it cost.