"He's coming."
The little girl's voice barely carried over the wind, but it was enough.
The lantern's flame guttered—flickering as though trying to hold its breath.
The boy stepped forward again, gently lowering himself to the child's level. "Who is he?"
The girl didn't answer. Her eyes had gone wide and unfocused, like she was seeing something just beyond the veil of this world.
Calix stepped closer, posture tense now. "I don't like this."
Neither did the boy.
He had felt grief before. Regret. Guilt.
All of it lingered like smoke on every soul he'd met.
But this—
This was fear.
And not the kind that fades with time.
The girl clutched her stuffed rabbit so tightly the seams strained.
"He… he came when I cried," she whispered. "I didn't mean to. I just wanted Mama. I wanted to go home."
The boy's heart ached. "What did he do?"
She trembled. "He told me I didn't exist. That no one remembered me. That even the sky forgot my name."
The lantern flared suddenly.
Calix jumped. "What the hell?"
The flame didn't brighten like it usually did when a soul began to heal.
It fought back—flashing, then dimming, like a candle under breath.
The wind picked up.
And then the boy heard it.
Not footsteps.
Not voices.
A hum. Low. Like metal vibrating just beneath the skin of the world.
Something was coming.
The girl looked toward the forest. "He's here."
Calix, voice tight but steady, whispered, "We need to go."
But the boy didn't move. He placed himself in front of the girl.
"She's not alone," he said.
Then, the trees began to shift.
Not visibly—not yet—but the darkness between the trunks grew thicker, heavier. The wind stopped altogether, as if the world itself held its breath.
And then—
A shape.
It didn't walk.
It slid.
Long arms. No face. No eyes. Just a hollow impression where a mouth should be—open wide like a scream that never ended. Its body wasn't solid. It flickered, almost like heat rising off stone, only darker. Hungrier.
Calix's voice broke. "What is that?"
The boy didn't answer. He lifted the lantern.
The flame responded—not with warmth, but resistance. It pulsed with heat, almost painful, as though the light itself was rejecting whatever that thing was.
The creature hissed—not through sound, but through presence.
It radiated cold. The kind that seeped into your teeth. The kind that stole names and buried them in forgotten dreams.
The girl whimpered. "He followed me. He said I don't belong."
The boy took a slow breath. "You do. You're not lost."
The creature moved faster.
But the lantern blazed.
This time, the flame rose like a small sun—blinding and hot. The boy gritted his teeth as the handle burned against his palm.
The creature reeled back, shrieking silently.
The girl gasped, burying her face in her rabbit. Her form flickered like smoke caught in wind. She was fading.
"No," the boy shouted. "Stay with us!"
Calix grabbed the boy's shoulder. "Don't let go!"
The boy closed his eyes.
He thought of the girl's small hands. Her torn dress. The rabbit she refused to abandon. He thought of the drawing the man had carried. Of the shoes left on the bridge. Of the way his grandmother used to hum when she cooked, as if the world was a song you could keep alive.
And he poured it into the lantern.
Light.
Memory.
Love.
The flame surged.
The creature howled.
And in the space between heartbeats—it vanished.
The trees stilled.
The wind returned.
And the girl—
She was crying. Not in fear this time. But relief.
"You're real," she whispered to the boy. "You remember me."
He knelt beside her. "What's your name?"
She blinked. Slowly. As if waking from a nightmare.
"My name is… Lanie."
The lantern flickered once more. Warm now. Soft.
She stood up, brushing dust from her ghostly dress.
"I want to go home."
"You will," the boy said. "We'll bring something of you back. Something your family will remember."
She nodded. Then looked toward the horizon.
A golden light waited for her there—like a doorway made of memory.
She turned once more.
"Thank you," she whispered. "And tell Mama I still have Bunny."
She faded into the light.
The flame dimmed.
Silence returned.
Calix let out a long breath. "Okay… So… That was new."
The boy stood, sweat on his brow, knuckles white.
"Some souls don't just get lost," he said quietly. "Something tries to keep them that way."
Calix looked toward the forest, still wide-eyed. "And you've been dealing with this alone?"
"Not anymore," the boy said.
He looked down at the lantern—its glow faint now, but alive.
And tucked in the corner of the well… a small ribbon. Purple. Frayed at the edge.
He picked it up gently.
A remnant.
And maybe, just maybe—
Another thread.