Years slipped quietly beneath a watchful sky.
The child grew, as children do — slowly at first, then all at once. His steps became steadier, his voice clearer, his gaze sharper. Yet even as he changed, something around him remained quietly aware.
The household remained humble, warmed by simple routines. Mornings began with the scent of baked grain and the soft murmur of family voices. Evenings ended beneath lantern light and stories told in low tones.
He listened to those stories carefully.
Legends of wandering lights in the forest. Of winds that carried messages no one understood. Of ancient things that once walked beneath brighter skies.
Most children would have trembled or laughed.
He did neither.
He remembered the feeling of the spark within his chest before he ever understood fear.
By the time he could run without stumbling, he had already learned that the Silverwood at the valley's edge was different from the fields near his home.
The trees there grew taller.
Closer together.
Their bark shimmered faintly at dusk, like threads of silver woven into living wood.
The first time he stepped beyond the final fence post of his family's land, the wind changed direction.
It did not grow stronger.
It simply turned — as if acknowledging him.
He paused.
Somewhere deeper among the trees, leaves rustled though nothing visible moved.
He should have returned home.
Instead, he stepped forward.
The Silverwood did not feel dangerous.
It felt… patient.
Sunlight filtered through the canopy in fractured beams. Dust motes drifted like suspended stars. Every footstep seemed softer than it should have been, as though the ground accepted his presence without protest.
He reached out to touch the trunk of a pale tree.
Warm.
Not from sunlight.
From within.
The spark in his chest answered faintly — a pulse that echoed into his fingertips.
He pulled his hand away quickly, heart racing.
Nothing else happened.
Yet the silence afterward felt heavier than before.
That was the first time he realized the forest was not merely a place.
It was listening.
As seasons shifted, small peculiarities followed him.
Water in a basin once trembled when he leaned over it.
A lantern flame stretched toward him instead of upward.
Shadows sometimes lagged half a second behind his movement, correcting themselves when he turned too quickly.
No one else seemed to notice.
Or if they did, they said nothing.
His family simply smiled at his quiet nature. The elders nodded at his attentiveness. Other children invited him to play, but he often drifted toward the valley's edge instead.
Not because he disliked them.
But because something beyond the trees called to him in silence.
Not a voice.
Not a command.
A presence.
One twilight, when the sky burned gold before surrendering to violet, he ventured farther than before.
The air grew cooler.
Still.
The Silverwood opened into a small clearing he had never seen.
At its center stood a single stone.
Smooth.
Tall as his shoulder.
Marked with faint lines too symmetrical to be natural.
He approached slowly.
The closer he came, the stronger the warmth in his chest became.
Not painful.
But insistent.
The lines on the stone glimmered faintly.
For a fleeting instant, they seemed to shift — forming patterns that almost resembled symbols.
Almost.
He blinked.
They returned to stillness.
He placed his palm against the stone.
The spark flared.
Not bright enough to blind.
But bright enough to change the air.
The wind circled him once — swift and contained — lifting fallen leaves into a spiraling ring before settling again.
His breath caught.
And then—
A sound.
High above the clearing.
Not thunder.
Not bird.
A deep, resonant vibration that seemed to stretch across the sky itself.
He looked up.
The heavens remained whole.
Cloudless.
Unbroken.
Yet for a fraction of a heartbeat, he thought he saw something ripple across the blue — like a reflection disturbed on water.
Then it was gone.
The warmth in his chest faded to a steady glow.
The forest exhaled.
And everything became ordinary again.
He returned home later than expected.
His family scolded him gently for wandering too far.
He apologized.
But that night, sleep did not come easily.
When it finally did, it carried no simple dreams.
He stood upon a height he did not recognize.
Wind roared around him, yet he felt no cold.
Below, mist churned endlessly.
Above, countless lights shimmered — closer than they should have been.
One light moved.
It did not fall.
It descended deliberately.
Slowly.
Watching.
He tried to step back.
He could not move.
The spark in his chest pulsed in answer.
And just before the light reached him—
He woke.
Dawn filtered through his window.
The room was quiet.
Normal.
Yet his heart still pounded.
He pressed his hand against his chest.
The warmth lingered.
Outside, the Silverwood stood motionless beneath the morning sky.
Peaceful.
Unassuming.
But he no longer mistook it for ordinary wilderness.
Something had stirred.
Not fully.
Not yet.
But enough.
He rose from his bed and stepped toward the window.
The horizon seemed wider than before.
The sky deeper.
And for the first time, a question formed clearly in his mind:
If the forest was listening…
Then who — or what — was waiting?
The wind brushed lightly against the house.
Soft.
Almost approving.
And far beyond sight, beyond understanding—
Something shifted.
Quietly.
As if a page had just been turned.