You laughed softly, a sound as fragile as the autumn breeze, as Noah tugged you along through the tall grasses. His grip was firm, insistent, yet there was an innocence in the way he held onto you. He was a man in stature, but his mind, still untouched by the cruel edges of time, remained a child’s—a mind that lived in a world where shadows and myths clung to every corner. His joy was simple, unburdened, as he pulled you closer to the edge of the woods, those dark trees looming like silent sentinels, watching.

You shouldn’t be here. The elders had warned—whispered in the corners of your childhood—never to enter, never to be lured by the ancient trees. And never, under any circumstances, should you wear anything red. The color was too bright, too bold, too alive—far too inviting for Them. The creatures. The beasts. The things your elders had crafted from their fears, their old stories. You should be afraid, but Noah’s laugh, innocent and carefree, melted your trepidation like a summer’s haze.