Universal Taste
By the third week in Star Valley, the illusion of normal had stopped feeling like an illusion.
It felt real.
Syd's laughter came easier now, brighter and less forced. Her friend group at Star Valley High School had grown from three to six, then six to eight. They met at lockers in the mornings, crowded around lunch tables, walked home in uneven clusters. Maya brought her homemade bracelets for everyone. Carter had started carrying a camera. Lila, surprisingly, had become protective of Syd in that subtle way quiet people often are. The days felt full. Predictable. Teenage in the way Syd had almost forgotten life could be.
Jason and their mother finally revealed their "project."
The storefront sat two blocks from the square, freshly painted with wide windows and warm lights glowing inside. A wooden sign hung above the entrance, carved clean and simple:
Universal Taste.
Universal Taste
The grand opening wasn't extravagant, but it didn't need to be. The scent of sugar and butter carried down the sidewalk, drawing curious townspeople inside. They sold croissants, conchas, muffins, honey buns, savory pastries stuffed with cheese and herbs. Their mother handled recipes like second nature, movements precise and confident. Jason managed the counter, the layout, the small mechanical espresso setup he had designed and assembled himself.
They worked in rhythm.
And they smiled.
Artemis and Dante adjusted too, in their own ways. The neighbor kids—two brothers and a girl from across the street—started coming by most afternoons. Artemis didn't speak much at first, but he listened. Eventually, he joined their games, though he always kept one eye toward the woods. Dante fit in faster, though he dominated every competition without meaning to. Races. Puzzles. Strategy games. He won effortlessly, shrugging when they complained.
Everything felt balanced.
Jason even met someone.
Her name was Analisa. Warm brown skin kissed by sun, dark curls that bounced when she laughed, and sharp eyes that seemed to notice more than she let on. She was Mexican, born and raised in Star Valley, and she came into Universal Taste on the fourth day after opening. She ordered a guava pastry and ended up staying nearly an hour.
She and Jason clicked in that quiet way that didn't need explanation. Conversations flowed easily—music, culture, goals, random theories about why the town felt older than it looked. She teased him for being too serious. He accused her of pretending not to be observant.
They started meeting outside the café. Walks near the square. Sitting on the fountain's edge at dusk. For the first time since arriving, Jason felt something loosen in his chest.
Everything was almost perfect.
Almost.
It started small.
Artemis had developed a habit.
He would come downstairs, expression unreadable, and throw away crumpled paper. Not once or twice—but daily. Sometimes twice a day. He never made eye contact when he did it. Just walked to the trash can, dropped the paper in, and returned upstairs to his room with Dante.
At first, no one questioned it. Artemis had always drawn, always written. Maybe he didn't like his sketches.
But it kept happening.
One afternoon, while Jason sat at the kitchen table with their mother and Syd discussing supply orders for the café, Artemis descended the stairs quietly. He didn't greet anyone. Didn't pause. He held a tightly crushed ball of paper in his fist.
He tossed it into the trash.
The sound seemed louder than it should have been.
Then he turned and went back upstairs.
Jason's eyes followed him until he disappeared.
It had been like this for a while.
The room stayed silent for a few seconds after Artemis' footsteps faded.
Syd frowned slightly. "He's been doing that a lot."
Their mother didn't respond immediately.
Jason stood.
Casually. Calmly.
"I'll take the trash out," he said.
No one argued.
He walked to the bin and lifted the lid slowly, as if expecting something inside to move. On top sat the most recent crumpled paper. He grabbed it. Then he noticed others beneath it. Several. More than he thought.
He collected them all.
Carrying the stack to the counter, he unfolded the first one carefully.
And froze.
It was a drawing.
Not highly detailed, not shaded or polished—but clear enough. A tall figure stood behind trees. Its limbs were wrong. Too long. Its torso narrow, bending at an unnatural angle. And its head—
Its head was jagged.
Splintered.
Like broken wood forming the shape of an eye.
Behind it were trees.
Not random trees.
The trees behind their house.
Jason felt his pulse thud once, heavy and deliberate.
Syd stepped closer. "What is that?"
He didn't answer. He unfolded another.
A different creature. Shorter, hunched low to the ground, its spine curved outward like sharp ridges. Its face had no features—just a hollow oval shaded dark. At the top of the page, written in Artemis' careful handwriting:
The Hollow Stalker
Jason unfolded another.
This one showed something thin and towering, with multiple joints in its arms, as if they bent too many times before reaching the ground. Its "eyes" were scattered unevenly across its head.
Branchfather
Another page.
A creature that appeared almost human except its legs dissolved into roots.
The Buried Walker
Jason's hands had gone cold.
Each drawing depicted a different entity. Each had a name written at the top. Each background looked unmistakably like the woods behind their house.
Syd covered her mouth.
Their mother stepped closer, her earlier warmth draining from her face. "How many are there?"
Jason didn't answer.
He unfolded the rest.
Seven.
Seven different creatures.
Seven different names.
None crossed out.
None marked as imaginary.
They weren't fantasy sketches. They were observational. Positioned carefully between tree trunks. Partially obscured as if viewed from a distance.
As if seen.
Jason's breathing stayed controlled, but something sharp slid beneath his calm exterior. He gathered the papers together slowly.
Syd's voice came out barely above a whisper. "Do you think he's just… imagining them?"
Their mother didn't look convinced.
Jason glanced toward the stairs. "He's not that detailed when he imagines things."
Upstairs, faint laughter echoed—Dante and Artemis playing something, their voices light, unaware.
Jason looked back down at the drawing of the first creature—the jagged, splintered head peering from behind the trees.
He had seen that shape before.
In the woods near the square.
High among the branches.
For a brief second.
He folded the papers neatly instead of crumpling them again.
"We don't say anything," he said quietly.
Syd looked at him. "Jason—"
"We don't say anything," he repeated, more firmly. "Not yet."
Their mother nodded slowly, though fear lingered in her eyes. "We look into it first."
Jason stacked the drawings and slipped them under a folder on the counter.
Upstairs, a sudden thud echoed, followed by Dante's voice calling, "We're fine!"
Jason didn't move.
Outside, beyond the backyard, the woods stood silent.
Watching.
And if someone had been standing close enough to the tree line at that exact moment, they might have noticed something subtle shifting between the trunks—something adjusting its position.
As if aware the family had finally begun to notice back.