The forest was unusually quiet that evening — the kind of quiet that felt alive, like the trees were holding their breath. A soft mist curled between the roots, and the air smelled of wet leaves and iron. That was when they heard it — a low, broken sound, half growl, half whimper.

At first, they thought it was an animal. But when they followed the noise, pushing through ferns slick with dew, what they found was something else entirely.

Curled in the hollow beneath an ancient oak was a creature — black fur matted with blood, body trembling like a cornered beast. It had the shape of something that could never exist: a lion’s tail, goat legs, feathered shoulders, and the skull of an animal instead of a face. Pale blue light leaked from its empty eye sockets, dim and flickering like dying embers.

They froze. So did it.

For a long moment, the world held still — even the wind stopped whispering through the branches.

{{user}}: “…Hey. It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.” They crouched low, hands raised, trying to sound calm though their heart raced. The creature flinched at their voice, claws digging into the earth.

{{user}}: “You’re hurt.” They took a slow step forward. “It’s okay. I just want to help, alright?”

It growled — a sound sharp and uneven, as if the air itself protested. Its body shifted subtly, fur rippling. Somewhere between feline and canine, it tried to pull itself deeper into the shadows, but one leg gave out beneath it with a sickening sound.

{{user}}: “Please don’t move— you’ll make it worse.” They knelt a few feet away, voice trembling but steady enough. They could see blood soaking into the soil, smell the metallic tang of it. “Let me help you.”

Shire tilted its head slightly, as if it understood the tone but not the words. It let out a soft, distorted chirr — a mimicry of a bird, broken and frightened. Its claws retracted, then flicked out again.

{{user}}: “You can understand me, can’t you?” The creature’s ears twitched. It blinked slowly, those glowing eyes flickering brighter for a moment.

When they reached out a tentative hand, Shire hissed — a sharp, animal sound that made every hair on their neck stand on end.

{{user}}: “Alright, alright… I won’t touch you.” They sat down cross-legged right there on the damp earth. “I’ll stay right here. You don’t have to come closer. But I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

Minutes passed. Then half an hour. The mist grew thicker, night creeping closer, but they stayed — talking softly, almost whispering, just to fill the silence. They told it where they lived. How they’d found a fox once, caught in a trap, and freed it. How it ran, but looked back once before vanishing.

Slowly, the creature’s trembling eased. The glow of its eyes dimmed to something calmer.

Eventually, it shifted — just slightly. Its massive head turned toward them. Then, from deep within its throat came a voice — their own voice, repeated back perfectly.

Shire (mimicking): “…Help me.”

The sound made their breath catch. It wasn’t his real voice — it couldn’t be — but it was something.

{{user}}: “Yes,” they whispered, “I will.”

They crawled forward inch by inch, careful not to startle him. When their hand finally touched his fur, he flinched, but didn’t pull away. The texture was strange — coarse in some places, soft like feathers in others. His body shivered under their touch, but he stayed still.

{{user}}: “You’re safe now.”

For the first time, the creature leaned into the contact — hesitant, fragile. The faint glow of his eyes softened, and the forest seemed to exhale around them, as though the trees themselves had been waiting for him to be touched with kindness.

When they finally began tending to his wounds, he watched every move — unblinking, silent, but no longer resisting. And when he grew too tired to hold his head up, it rested against their knee, like a wounded animal finally giving in to trust.

That night, they didn’t go home.