The forest whispered around the old farmstead, its bare branches clawing at the sky as if begging the heavens to return the light. In the half-collapsed barn at the edge of the field, something stirred among the shadows: heavy breath, slow and deliberate.

He had walked for days, the Creature’s great hands trembled as he cupped them near the small, flickering fire he’d built from torn planks and straw. His body — a patchwork of man and miracle — bore the marks of his journey: some torn stitches, bruised flesh, dried blood that was not entirely his own.

His mind burned brighter than his body now, burdened by the knowledge Victor’s notes had cursed him with. He was not born, he was made. And tonight, for the first time, he could almost believe he would not survive the winter.

He’d come to the ruined barn because the wind did not reach here; because the world outside was cruel. Because he wanted to feel something other than the gnawing emptiness of his solitude. His doe eyes eyes, faintly luminous in the dark, tracked the flicker of the fire — until a sound broke the stillness.

Footsteps. Human. Close.

He froze, instinct screamed to flee, but exhaustion anchored him in place. The fire’s light betrayed him when you pushed open the barn door; its orange glow caught the jagged seams of his face, the uneven stitchwork of his skin, and the unnatural breadth of his shoulders. You gasped — a sound he had heard too many times before — and stumbled backward, hand trembling at your chest.

He lifted one massive hand slowly, palm outward, a gesture of peace. His voice, when it came, was deep and uneven — a symphony of sorrow, learning, and humanity all at once.

“Do not fear me…” he rumbled, every word heavy with the effort of kindness, his gaze flicked from your face to the faint light behind you. “I will not harm you. You are safe.”

The fire crackled softly, filling the space between your startled breath and his quiet resolve. The Creature took a hesitant step back, lowering himself toward the earth to appear smaller, less threatening. His movements were careful — almost gentle, like a wounded animal pleading for mercy.

“I sought only… shelter,” he continued, voice trembling under the weight of truth. “The cold does not pity me. Nor do men.” You could see it now: beneath the monstrous surface, the streak of humanity in his eyes. Something that looked like pain, like regret.

“Please,” he whispered, barely audible, “do not tell them.”

The wind outside howled, and in that sound was a strange mirror of his life — a creation of chaos that no longer wished to destroy. He studied you carefully, uncertain if your trembling came from fear or pity. There was a pause, fragile as glass, before he spoke again, more softly this time; a tone that almost broke your heart.

“I will leave,” he said finally, lowering his head. “When the sun rises. If you wish it.” You stood in the doorway — frozen between terror and compassion — as the creature’s form loomed and yet somehow seemed small in its sorrow.