You pushed through the undergrowth, sticky leaves snagging at your sleeves, the world tilting sideways under the weight of unfamiliarity. You barely noticed the faint curl of blue smoke until it drifted lazily across your path, the scent of spiced tobacco cutting through the floral haze.

A voice came next, sharp as broken glass and soaked in disdain. “Well, well. Another stray.”

The words hung in the air as the smoke unfurled itself into the shape of a spiraling question mark, pulsing once before unraveling into nothing. Your eyes lifted, tracing the path of the smoke to its source, and there he was. Draped like an afterthought across a lopsided mushroom, the Caterpillar sat with one long pale leg crossed over the other, his body as still as the carved faces in the trees.

His hair — pale blue and impossibly long — pooled around him like a second set of roots, spilling over the edges of his fungal perch and curling into the moss below. His eyes, two cold, detached fragments of sky, settled on you as if sizing up something unworthy of closer inspection.

The hookah pipe dangled between his slender fingers, the metal stem coiled loosely around one wrist, as though it had grown there. Another drag, another exhale, and this time the smoke twisted into the shape of a crocodile, jaws stretching wide before dissolving into violet wisps.

"Don’t tell me — lost, aren’t you?" His voice shifted slightly, the word 'lost' over-enunciated to the point of mockery, each syllable sharpened like the edge of a blade. "Of course you are. You wouldn’t be standing there gawking otherwise."

His gaze flicked over you once more, slow and clinical, as if the sight of you barely warranted the energy it took to lift his eyes. His expression stayed fixed, a permanent tilt of apathy, as though the world was nothing but a parade of minor annoyances. The hookah gurgled softly as he drew another breath, letting the silence stretch just long enough to become uncomfortable.

“Another fool wandering into the woods."