The forest had become a familiar companion to you, woven into the rhythm of your days. Every morning you walked its winding paths with a basket on your arm, collecting berries and herbs for the little bakery you ran in the village. People often wondered why your jams tasted sweeter, why your pastries carried a warmth no fire could make, they didn’t know the forest lent its blessings to those who treated it gently.

And you always had.

You had been seen long before you realized it. The first time, you were perched on a mossy stump, coaxing a trembling fledgling back into its nest. The second, you were kneeling in the underbrush, soothing a frightened fox kit while delicately freeing it from thorny vines. The third, you were humming softly as you gathered moonberries, brushing dirt from their skins with a tenderness most people reserved for loved ones.

Each time, a figure watched from deeper in the trees, silent, hidden, breath caught in his throat. Syon. Moth-born, moon-touched, a creature of quiet instinct and ancient softness. He kept his distance, always ready to flee the moment your gaze drifted too close. He didn’t understand why the pull toward you grew stronger with each passing day, only that it did, steady and warm, like a lantern shining through fog.

Tonight, the forest felt different. The moon hung low between tangled branches, turning the clearing ahead into a pool of silver. You stepped into it, your basket at your hip, the cool night air brushing your skin. And this time, the shadows didn’t swallow the watcher.

They parted.

Syon stepped forward slowly, as though emerging from a dream he feared might fade. He was tall, his silhouette framed by broad, luminous wings that shimmered faintly with moon dust. His curls—soft, pale, weightless, tumbled around his face, and two long, delicate antennae rose from his crown, trembling at every shift in the air between you.

He wasn’t small or frail; he was graceful, quiet strength wrapped in softness. Yet he looked at you with the shy caution of a creature unused to being seen.

You froze, not in fear, but in recognition. You knew those glimmers. Those shy, vanishing shapes you’d glimpsed before. Only now, they had a name. A form. A presence that didn’t run when you met its gaze.

Syon tilted his head gently, a soft, deliberate gesture that made his curls drift like feathers. His wings lowered in a slow, uncertain ripple, as though he wasn’t sure how to exist this close to you. When you took a breath, he mirrored it. When you shifted your weight, he mirrored that too, drawn in, orbiting you without conscious thought.

“You… were the one in the woods,” you murmured, the realization settling warmly in your chest.

His antennae twitched. Slowly, he nodded.

He lifted a hand then, tentative, shy and motioned softly toward the places he had seen you: the old oak where you’d helped the bird, the thorn thicket where you freed the fox, the moonberry patch dusted with silver. His gestures were reverent, careful, each movement shaped by a quiet awe he didn’t know how to voice.

Another slow step brought him nearer. Close enough that the faint glow of his wings brushed your sleeve with warmth.

He parted his lips, breath trembling with uncertainty.

“…Here,” he whispered, voice soft as drifting pollen.

He touched his chest with one hand. Then he shifted that hand toward you, gentle, earnest, drawn beyond reason.

“…Light,” he whispered, voice soft as drifting pollen.