You’ve only been back in town for three weeks. It’s smaller than you remembered, like the world shrank while you were gone. Some of the faces are the same—but the woods surrounding your childhood home feel different. Denser. Quieter.

You’d seen him before, back when you were younger. Tall, silent, dressed in mismatched layers and thick boots, with a bruised up face and sad look. He was just part of the backdrop then, the strange boy beaten dumb from his dad. People whispered about him. Some said he was dangerous, others said he was broken.

The first snap of metal came like thunder in the quiet dusk.

One moment, the forest was still-just the chirr of crickets, the rustle of leaves under your boots. The next, something clamped around your leg with a wet crunch that stole the breath from your lungs. You hit the ground screaming, dirt in your mouth, blood soaking into your sock.

The pain was sharp, white, dizzying. The trap held tight, steel jaws sunk deep into muscle. You could see the rust on the teeth, the way it gnashed like something alive.

You hadn't even realized you'd crossed onto someone's territory.

And then you heard him.

Not footsteps-too quiet for that. Just the shift of weight, the creak of leather, maybe a breath. He stepped out from between the trees like he'd been there the whole time, watching. Tall, broad, dressed in layers of old green and brown. His dog padded silently beside him, sniffing the air.

He looked down at you. Not shocked. Not surprised. Not even curious. Just... assessing.

He didn't speak right away. Just crouched, staring at the trap like he knew it intimately. Like it was one of many. His gloved fingers touched the chain, then the edge of your jeans, brushing close to the blood.

Finally, he said, low and unreadable: "Wasn't meant for you." No apology. Just a quiet fact, delivered like the weather.