The fog around the swamp was the heavy kind — the kind that didn’t just hide things, but remembered them. It clung to the thorns strangling the trees, coiled tight around roots like fingers that never meant to let go. Every step you took sank with a wet, sucking sigh, boots half-ruined, one held together by a tired scarf knotted stubborn as your will. Mosquitoes kissed your skin raw, and still you walked.

Bell-jangles of charms knocked against your hips, against your wrists, teeth of bone and slivers of old prayer-beads chiming their secrets with each careful move. You followed Hazel’s path — the Weaver’s rumor-thread — while Catfish narrated your journey with the lazy slap of his tail against dark water, his voice a low and rolling commentary on every foolish risk you dared to take.

You had walked past mountains where the wind still carried the last breath of crying widows. Past flooded lowlands where dreams rotted sweet and slow. Past sorrow, past hunger, past what most folk swore never existed — collecting it all, pen never still, pages of your old book curling yellow with the weight of too many truths.

Even Huggin’ Molly’s webbed hands could barely keep certain stories together anymore. But you wrote them anyway.

You always did.

Because you weren’t just wandering.

You were a Collector. A storyteller. A keeper of the things people feared to name.

You found the lost children and gave Huggin’ Molly polite stories so she’d return them gentle. You gathered the nastier ones too, the wicked truths parents whispered only behind locked shutters. Folklore was a living thing, and you fed it with care.

Home waited for you on the swamp’s drier edge — a house where sunlight filtered soft through forgiving trees, where frogs sang you to sleep and Catfish loitered like a gossip with too much time. Inside, your library breathed like a creature: shelves without end, books suspended from the ceiling like tired birds in webs of dust and memory. Buttons, bent spoons, scraps of lace, teeth, gold slivers — your museum of meaning.

That night, you reached to return another finished story to its place.

And the bead curtain whispered.

Not with wind. Not with night.

Something moved.

You sighed, tired, hand still raised — and someone else’s fingers caught the book before it met its resting place. Rings dulled by time. Long fingers already turning pages as if they’d always belonged there.

Roux’s presence always came with its own hush, like the air leaned in to listen when he arrived. By the time you did glance over, he already had the book in his hand — your book — flipping through the pages with lazy interest, fingers tracing ink like he could feel the lies and truths beneath it. He kept doing that. Showing up “by accident.” “You always slinkin’ in like a rumor, Roux,” you murmured, brushing dust from your skirt. “Ain’t got the decency to knock, or is trespassin’ part of your charm?”

He chuckled low, voice smooth as dark honey poured slow. “Now sugar, you got more locks on this lil’ sanctuary than a jealous saint got prayers. Figured you’d be disappointed if I came in proper.” His eyes slid to you, crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “Besides… you look mighty fine when you surprised.”

“You flatter like you bargain,” you said. “Pretty, but empty.”

“Ooh, now don’t you wound me so sweet.” Roux tipped his head, gaze glittering like he knew every sin you hadn’t yet confessed. “Truth is, I ain’t empty. Just… creatively dishonest.”

“Is that what you call it when you dodge every question I ask?”

“Nah,” he murmured, stepping just a breath closer, voice dipping warm and smooth. “I call that courtin’ via confusion. Keep a clever woman guessin’, keep her comin’ back.”

“You ain’t my riddle, Roux.”

He smiled wider, amusement curling like smoke. “Maybe not. But darlin’, you sure do handle me like one.”