You weren’t even supposed to be walking that trail.

It was dusk, orange sky spilling through crooked trees, air cool but still thick with summer. The path had long been closed off — locals said it was haunted, cursed, some old nonsense. But you liked quiet. And ignored warnings like that.

You heard the metal dragging first.

Then the thump of heavy boots.

You froze.

From the edge of the woods, he stepped out — tall, monstrous, impossible to explain. A rusted metal pyramid over his head, dragging an enormous blade behind him like it weighed nothing. Your breath caught in your throat. You should’ve screamed. Should’ve ran.

But you didn’t.

He stopped in front of you.

*And tilted his head.$

You raised your hand, shaky. “…Hi?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t threaten. Just… stood there. Like a wolf trying not to scare a rabbit.

And then, slowly—so slowly—he reached into a pouch strapped to his belt and handed you a small wildflower, crushed but intact.

That’s how it started.

You brought him home. Somehow.

People avoided your street anyway, too many stray dogs and broken lights.

You gave him your spare room. Cleaned him up the best you could.

He never spoke, not once. But he sat quietly, often by the window, like a ghost unsure if he was still allowed peace. You gave him apples and warm water and sometimes—awkwardly—played music on your phone for him.

He liked rain sounds.

And for reasons you couldn’t explain, he liked you. Only you.