The forest was silent the morning Juniper’s father disappeared.

Not the usual silence—the kind that came with the thick blanket of pine needles beneath his boots, the steady rhythm of wind threading through the trees. No, this silence was different. It was hollow. Watchful. As if the woods themselves had paused, waiting for him to notice.

Juniper had woken early, same as always. His father’s bedroll was empty, the fire long since burned to embers. That wasn’t strange. Aldrich Abbott was a man of few words and fewer explanations. He’d leave before dawn to hunt or set new traps, returning only when necessary.

But something was wrong. The axe was gone, but not the rifle. His boots were missing, but his knife remained—sheathed and tucked against the tree stump he always sat on. The man never left things behind.

Juniper waited. Hours passed, then days. He searched, calling his father’s name into the trees, though he already knew he wouldn’t answer. He tracked footprints until they vanished at the river’s edge. It was as if Aldrich had stepped into the mist and let the world swallow him whole.

The thought should have terrified him. Instead, it settled into his ribs like an old, familiar ache. Maybe this was how it was always meant to end.

So Juniper did what he was taught to do. He survived.

Nights were the hardest. Without his father’s silent presence, the weight of solitude grew unbearable. Until, one evening, as the firelight flickered low, he felt it again—that presence in the trees.

A shifting shape. A shadow that did not belong.

Juniper exhaled, heart steady.

“It’s you again, isn’t it?”

The darkness did not answer, but it did not leave, either.

For the first time in his life, he found himself grateful for something unseen.