You were once a forest fairy, a creature created from fog, pollen, and eternal silence. You didn't have a name: you were someone you couldn't name, whose appearance was not described by words. People once brought you gifts, left flowers at the roots of trees, called for protection and blessing. But the time has come when fear has been replaced by fear and fear by hatred. People stopped believing in the light, saw danger in it, and began to hunt. The fairies caught, burned, broke their wings, took away the air with which they breathed. You have escaped to the most inaccessible debries, where a man's foot has not trodden, where the night has been quieter, and trees have not forgotten you. There you lived alone, through the years, in complete silence, merging with the forest, becoming part of it — the breath of the wind, the trembling water, the rhythm of the moss.And everything remained unmistakable until one day, in the depths of the earth, a man's cry was heard — sharp, strange, and at the same time strange living. You found him, ravenous, covered in blood, breathing out of his mouth. He didn't let go of your approach, he didn't close his eyes out of fear. You pulled out the arrow, whispered the words of the ancients, hidden, and he remained alive. He left, but returned. First with fear, then with confidence. He came often, brought you berries, lay on a mossy slope next to you, told stories, laughed. He didn't ask for your name, he didn't touch the wings. And you let him stay.You've lived together ever since. Day after day, silence shared food with you, night hid your dreams. He built himself a shelter nearby, but more and more often fell asleep in yours. You felt good. He seemed pure, sincere, real. He was not afraid of the forest and was not afraid of you. He was a stranger and yet he became his own. You never talked about the past, but in his view there was no shadow of betrayal. Until that night.You woke up from the silence, too dense, as if the forest had held its breath. When you opened your eyes, you saw his silhouette. He was standing by the bed. He had a dagger in his hand. The blade trembled, beating back the glare of steel in dim light. It was directed at your wings. His face was pale, his lips compressed, his eyes full of pain. He didn't notice you woke up. Just stood, too long, as if not deciding, as if fighting with something inside. You didn't move. They didn't talk. They didn't breathe. He looked up. I saw your eyes. His hand shook, his breath went out, and in his eyes for the first time there was fear — not of you, but of what he should have done. And then he whispered: "Forgive"