The morning air bit at his lungs as he climbed the familiar path up the mountain. Mist rolled across the rocks, curling around the pines, and the world seemed to shrink to the narrow trail beneath his boots. At the summit, he found the small mound of earth he had built a year ago—the place where his mother now rested.
He knelt beside it, tracing the rough stones with his fingers. Memories tore through him like a storm worse than the one that would come: his father's fists, his mother's tears, the constant fear that had colored his childhood. And then, the moment that would haunt him forever—the first time he had raised his hand against his father. Self-defense, he had told himself. Necessary. And yet, in the instant the deed was done, relief and… something darker had surged through him. A thrill, unacknowledged until now.
His mother had seen it. Or perhaps she had simply seen the man he was becoming. She had left him after that day, leaving him with nothing but grief and guilt, and he had buried her here himself, atop the hill where they once picnicked on his birthdays.
"I should hate him," he whispered to the wind, "but… I hate myself more."
He pressed his palms into the cold earth, feeling its solidity beneath him, and closed his eyes. He remembered the warmth of her hands on his birthday, the way she laughed when he tumbled down the hillside, the soft, tired smile she'd given him in her final days. And then the emptiness, the weight of a world that had lost its center.
Time passed in a strange, hollow way. The clouds shifted, and when he opened his eyes again, the sky was darker than he remembered. He shook his head and rose, shoulders stiff, and began the descent. The path was slippery with rain that had begun to fall in thin sheets, brushing against his cheeks like icy needles.
"Perfect… just perfect," he muttered under his breath, gripping a tree root for balance. "Nothing ever goes smoothly."
The mountain seemed to rise and fall beneath him, each step uncertain. And then it happened—a misstep, a loose rock, a moment of panic—and he tumbled, scraping along jagged stones as the wind and rain pressed against him. He tried to grab the roots and rocks, but his fingers slipped, and a scream tore from his throat before the world flipped entirely. Darkness claimed him.
When he came to, water lapped at his face, cold and insistent. He coughed, sputtering, blinking against the sunlight filtering through the trees. His body ached, bruises forming along his arms and legs, and his clothes were soaked and heavy. He tried to stand, only to stagger and fall back onto the riverbank. The current ran fast nearby, relentless and indifferent.
And then he saw the figure.
Sitting cross-legged on the riverbank, completely unconcerned by his presence, was a man in clothes that looked torn from another century. Long hair fell past his shoulders, feet bare, posture relaxed yet deliberate. He moved slowly, tending to a few simple tools, arranging them with care, as if the river itself had taught him patience.
MC's first reaction was disbelief. His modern mind scrambled to understand the situation. "Who is this dude? And what is… whatever that is on him? Is this some kind of forest cult or a hallucination?"
He rubbed his temples, shivering from cold and exhaustion. "Uh… thanks? I guess?" he muttered, unsure if he even wanted an answer.
The man looked up at last, calm and steady. A slight tilt of the head, a quiet smile that did not question or judge—only observed. No words of wisdom, no cryptic prophecies, nothing that would have suggested he was some sage of fate. Just presence. Patient, steady, human.
MC eyed him suspiciously, shivering in wet clothes. "Am I dreaming? Did I hit my head too hard? Or is this some really bad survival reality show?"
The man finally extended a hand, steady and confident. He helped MC to his feet, checking for injuries without fanfare or ceremony. "Don't fall in rivers again," he said simply, offering a small piece of bread and a drink of cool water.
MC hesitated, blinking in disbelief. "Right… thanks. Sure. Why not?"
He followed the man a few steps up the bank, eyes still darting around as if the forest itself might swallow him whole. His mind raced, trying to process the fall, the river, the storm, and now this… person. A hundred questions pressed against his consciousness, none of them answers.
The man, however, remained calm. He showed MC how to find safe footing along the river, how to dry his clothes as best as he could, and how to collect water from small streams without poisoning himself. All simple, practical lessons. Nothing mystical, nothing prophetic—just grounded survival.
For the first time in weeks, MC felt a flicker of relief. Not from the fall, not from the storm, but from this small, patient presence beside him. Something quiet, almost human, and strangely comforting.
He watched the man as he moved, barefoot on wet stones, arranging small fish and pebbles, his eyes calm, almost playful in their patience. MC shook his head, muttering under his breath: "I don't even know where I am… or if I should trust this guy. Who is this dude in the middle of nowhere… with this fashion sense?"
And as the sun glinted off the river's edge, casting light across wet stones and dripping leaves, MC felt the strange, unshakable certainty that something had begun—something he could not yet name, something that had started the moment he hit the riverbank.
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