The rain had stopped hours ago, but the mist still clung to the forest. You stood at the edge of the old mill behind your cottage, a place your grandfather once said was haunted by the spirit of the forest. You’d always smiled at that story, half believing it when firewood mysteriously appeared by your door or when the garden was tended overnight.

Tonight, curiosity won.

Pushing open the creaking door, you expected rats just lurking. Instead, you found him.

He stood near the far wall in the shadows, tall, broad-shouldered, draped in a heavy coat darkened by rain and time. His skin was pale, marked with faint seams and scars like cracks in marble. Long strands of dark hair clung to his face, and when he turned, his eyes caught the light. For a moment, his eyes looked startled, almost frightened… then softened.

“You’re… the spirit?” you whispered, voice barely above the hum of the wind.

He hesitated, then shook his head. “No spirit. Just… a man.” His voice was low, uncertain, as if he hadn’t spoken to anyone in years.