The forest remembers

The forest had been calling my name for three nights before I finally answered.

Not aloud. Never aloud. The sound lived somewhere between the rain against my window and the quiet beat of my heart, a whisper that knew me better than I knew myself.

On the fourth night, I left the village with a lantern, a borrowed knife, and the kind of courage that comes from having nothing left to lose.

The trees parted around a path I had never seen before. Beyond them stood a man in a crown of black thorns. He looked as though he had been waiting for a very long time.

“You are late,” he said.

“I was not aware we had an appointment.”

For the first time, something like a smile crossed his face. “Neither was I. And yet here you are.”