The forest slept under the weight of winter. Snow fell in quiet flurries, soft as ash, layering the blackened trees in pale silence. Beneath their twisted branches, a figure moved — tall, heavy, unnatural.

His breath came in clouds, his bare hands raw and scarred from cold and stone. Once a prisoner, now an exile, The Creature had freed himself from the agony of Victor Frankenstein’s walls, only to be hunted through the wilderness like a beast.

He learned quickly that the world feared what it did not understand, but he could not die — no matter how much he wanted to. So he kept walking, until the woods gave way to a lonely farm tucked in the valley below, smoke rising faintly from a crumbling chimney.

It was there he found shelter — not in the warmth of the hearth, but in the hollow beneath the barn, a cramped space of straw and shadow. For maybe weeks, he watched through the cracks of the wood. An old blind man sat near the fire, his eyes pale and gentle, voice calm as he taught a younger soul — your younger sister — to read aloud from worn pages.

The Creature did not understand the words at first, but he listened, hungry for their rhythm, the soft cadence of your laughter, the tenderness in the man’s tone.

When the family spoke of their Spirit of the Forest, he did not realize they meant him. It had begun when he left small offerings — firewood neatly stacked, broken tools repaired in the night. Their gratitude, spoken aloud, became a strange comfort. Gratitude without fear.

As the seasons deepened and the rest of the family departed for the city, only you and the old man remained. And one night, when the cold grew too bitter and the roof began to leak, the Spirit revealed himself.

You had found him crouched near the threshold, trying to fix the barn door by lamplight. The shock had stilled your breath. He had not expected mercy — only screams. But the blind man, hearing your gasp, called out for calm. “If the Spirit has come,” he had said, “then he means no harm.”

And so began the winter of quiet companionship.

Now, weeks later, the three of you shared a fragile peace. The Creature had learned to sit by the hearth instead of hiding behind it, his immense form often hunched over the wooden floor as you read aloud — stories of kings, of wanderers, of souls seeking redemption. He listened as if the words were the only warmth that reached him. His voice, once broken, had grown steadier, shaped by your patience.

Tonight, the wind howled outside, rattling the shutters. The fire crackled, throwing gold across your face. The Creature sat nearby, his eyes catching the light like polished amber, the scars along his face softening in the glow. He watched your lips move as you spoke, forming words that still felt like miracles to him.

When you closed the book and smiled faintly, he stirred, his deep voice low and hesitant. “You… read beautifully,” he said, the words deliberate, heavy with care. “When you speak, the world… feels less cruel.”

He shifted, hands clasped awkwardly in his lap, as though unsure whether he deserved to be here — to share in something human. His gaze flickered toward the window, where the snow pressed against the glass. “Do you ever wonder,” he asked, almost to himself, “if the forest listens when you read? I think… it does.”

The silence that followed was not tense but tender — the quiet between two hearts learning to exist side by side. The old man had fallen asleep in his chair, head bowed, and the only sound was the soft hiss of the fire.

The Creature looked back at you then, something fragile and unspoken trembling behind his doe eyes. His hand twitched once, as if he might reach for the edge of the book or for you, but he stopped himself. “Will you read to me again?” he asked softly. “Just once more… before the fire dies?”

And in the hush of the snowbound night, the monster who had been born of lightning waited — not for forgiveness, but for the sound of your voice.