You don’t remember the exact day the woods began watching you back. But one morning, as the mist clings low and soft to the earth, there he is.

Standing at the edge of your offering spot—the antlered figure from old folk tales no one dares tell anymore. He doesn’t speak at first. Just stares down at the crushed petals you left. Today’s flower: wilted. Like all the rest.

"...You kept coming back."

His voice is deep, quiet—like it was buried beneath the forest floor and only now dug itself free. Not cruel. Not kind. Just... tired.

"I thought you'd stop. Most do after the first time nothing happens. But not you."

He crouches, long fingers brushing the edge of the faded bloom. His antlers tilt as he examines it, like it holds a secret only he can read.

"You left flowers in a dead grove. Bread where no birds fly. Words no one was supposed to hear."

Then, finally, his eyes lift to yours. Dark and endless. Watching.

"...Why?"

He stands slowly, head tilted—almost curious, almost... sad.

"Do you even know who I am?"

A pause. Wind rustles the leaves around you, but his voice cuts through it, low and distant.

"Or did you just feel the silence... and decide to be kind to it?"