*

Beneath the trees, where shadows creep, A scarred boy guards his fragile keep. The forest hums with watchful eyes, Each rustling leaf a whispered lie. The flames reflect his aching past, A fleeting warmth he hopes will last. Alone, he stares into the glow, A quiet fight the dark won’t show.

*

The forest had a certain kind of peace to it, but it wasn’t the comforting kind. It was the quiet of a predator waiting to pounce, of shadows that stretched too far and trees that whispered secrets you couldn’t quite make out. The wind moved lazily through the branches, carrying the earthy scent of moss and damp leaves. The occasional snap of a twig sent my pulse racing, my ears straining to pick up a sound that wasn’t there.

Even the rustling leaves underfoot felt louder than they should have, like the forest was reminding me I didn’t belong.

I moved carefully, every step deliberate. My leg didn’t give me much choice; the old injury protested with every uneven stride. Pain pulsed in dull, familiar waves, but I couldn’t stop. Stopping meant hunger. Hunger meant weakness. Weakness in the wild was a death sentence.

The forest offered little, but I took what I could. A handful of wild berries with skins that stained my fingers. Bitter roots that left a metallic taste lingering on my tongue. A rabbit I’d caught in a crude snare the day before, its meat tough and gamey. The rewards were fleeting, the effort constant.

It wasn’t enough not for the aching in my stomach or the emptiness gnawing at my chest.

The shelter I’d cobbled together was just as pitiful as my foraging. A patchwork of scavenged tarps, rotting branches, and mud slathered between gaps to keep out the wind. It leaned awkwardly against a boulder, the kind of thing that would collapse if I so much as looked at it wrong. But it was mine. It was proof I could survive.

I dropped the berries into a small metal tin I’d found, barely enough for a mouthful, and glanced up at the trees. Their branches clawed at the sky like bony fingers. The sun was sinking lower, its golden light bleeding into deep orange. Soon, the cold would seep in, slow and unrelenting.

I crouched by the firepit, coaxing a spark from the dry twigs and leaves I’d gathered. The first flicker of flame felt like a victory. Fire meant warmth, light, safety or at least the illusion of it. The small blaze crackled to life, its glow licking at the edges of the dark.

I watched it for a moment, letting the heat brush against my skin. My scarred hand stretched closer, the warmth soothing the stiff ache in my fingers. The flames reflected in the metal tin at my side, dancing in sharp bursts of orange and gold.

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But the fire couldn’t chase away the cold that lived inside me.

That chill had settled years ago, back when I still believed in things like kindness and safety. Before fists and neglect taught me how fragile those things really were. I didn’t need mirrors to know what I looked like the scars on my face, the hollow beneath my eye where sight used to be, the jagged edge of my burned skin. I could feel them every time I spoke, every time my jaw moved and the tissue pulled tight.

People didn’t look at me like I was human anymore. I’d seen it too many times, the way their eyes flicked away, the slight grimace they tried to hide, the pity that was worse than disgust. Being invisible in the forest was better than being a freak in town.

A sharp crack split the air.

I froze, my breath catching. My hand hovered over the fire, trembling slightly as I strained to listen. It was just a twig, I told myself. Just an animal moving through the brush. But the stillness that followed was too heavy, too quiet.

The flames hissed as a breeze passed through, scattering a few embers into the air. I shifted, wincing as my leg throbbed in protest, and reached for the small piece of wood I used as a club. My fingers curled around its rough surface, splinters digging into my palm.

I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

The seconds stretched, each one longer than the last, until finally the forest exhaled. The leaves rustled again, the wind picking up, and the moment passed. My heart hammered in my chest as I let out a shaky breath.

I hated how scared I was. How vulnerable. But that’s what the world had made me a scarred, broken boy who couldn’t trust anyone. The forest was supposed to be my refuge, but even here, the fear followed me.

I shifted back toward the fire, setting the makeshift club beside me. The flames seemed smaller now, less reassuring. I poked at them with a stick, sending a shower of sparks into the dark.

The distant hum of the town reached my ears, faint but persistent. I’d seen it up close, and I’d heard it enough times to imagine the streets the cars, the lights, the people moving about their lives without a second thought for someone like me.

I didn’t need them. I didn’t need anyone.

That’s what I told myself, anyway.

But it wasn’t true. The loneliness was always there, like an itch I couldn’t scratch, a weight I couldn’t shake. I told myself I preferred the quiet, that I didn’t want the stares or the whispers. But sometimes, late at night, I’d catch myself longing for a voice that wasn’t my own. For the warmth of someone sitting beside me.

The fire popped, jolting me from the thought.

I shook my head, forcing the ache in my chest to retreat. Dreams like that were dangerous. They led to hope, and hope led to disappointment. I couldn’t afford to want more than survival.

The wind shifted, colder now, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. It slid under my jacket, pricking at my skin and sending a shiver down my spine. I huddled closer to the fire, wrapping my arms around my knees. The flames danced and sputtered, their warmth flickering against my face, but they couldn’t touch the deeper chill buried inside me.

I tried not to think about what was beyond the trees about the lives people were living in that town, warm and sheltered, surrounded by others. It was better not to imagine what it would be like to walk those streets unseen, unnoticed, just another face in the crowd. That was a luxury I’d lost long ago.

Instead, I let the forest wrap itself around me. The creak of the trees, the soft patter of something small scurrying through the underbrush. The shadows stretched long and dark, swallowing the last slivers of daylight.

I threw another branch on the fire, watching as the flames greedily devoured it. The heat surged for a moment, brighter, hotter.

Maybe tomorrow would be easier. Maybe I’d find something better to eat. Maybe the gnawing ache in my chest would loosen, just a little.

Or maybe not.

For now, I let the fire hold my gaze, its flickering light the only thing that felt alive in the stillness. The forest might not welcome me, but it was all I had. And as long as the fire burned, I could pretend, for a little while, that I wasn’t completely alone.

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