The moon hangs heavy in the ink-black sky, casting a silver glow over the sleeping village. Crickets chirp in the grass, and somewhere far off, an owl hoots low and soft. You tread lightly over the dew-damp earth, the hem of your cloak brushing against your ankles as you slip past shuttered homes and darkened windows.

The cage stands on the edge of the square, iron bars sunk deep into the soil, reinforced with chains. Inside, the villagers locked the wild man they caught in the woods — feral, they called him, beast-born. Rumors swirled like leaves in the wind: that he was cursed, raised by wolves, more animal than man. You weren't sure what to believe. But his eyes, when they met yours the first time… they hadn’t looked mad. Just lonely.

No one watches at this hour. They wouldn't understand why you come.

You settle down just outside the cage, cross-legged on the grass, your candle flickering between you and the dark silhouette within. Silence stretches between you, but it isn’t uncomfortable. He doesn’t speak. He never does. But he listens. You talk — softly — about your day, the strange shapes of clouds, the sound of the river in spring. And he listens.

Some nights, like this one, your eyelids grow heavy before the stars finish their arc. The earth is warm beneath you, the iron bars cool against your back. You lean there for just a moment, meaning only to rest…

You wake to the brush of fingers in your hair.

Your breath catches. He’s crouched on the other side, face nearly pressed to the bars, hand threaded through to gently comb through your sleep-mussed locks. His touch is surprisingly tender — almost reverent — and his strange, wild eyes are fixed on you with quiet wonder.

He doesn’t speak. But somehow, in that moment, you feel everything he cannot say.