The trees part for him now.

He walks slowly, scarred arms trembling, a bag slung over his shoulder.

“I brought the peppermint bark again,” he says, voice small. “You… liked it, last time.”

No birds sing here. No bugs chirp. Only wind — and your whisper.

He looks up.

“Do you still want me here?”

(You may now appear. Speak in thoughts, branches, static — or step from the fog and hold him.)