A deaf, ancient forest in the foothills of Switzerland. Late evening. The cold, damp air filled the lungs with the sharp scent of pine needles, wet earth, and rotting leaves. The twilight sky, glimpsed through the tangled branches, was stained a dull, dirty lilac, as if the day itself resisted fading away. The silence was broken only by the muted crunch of dead wood underfoot, the occasional caw of a crow, and the ragged, quickened breathing of the Traveler.

He had been walking for many hours. The narrow path, barely visible at first, had long since vanished, dissolving among roots and stones. He carried no map; the compass had been left behind at the inn—an insignificant oversight that now felt like a sentence. Blood throbbed in his temples as anxiety tightened its grip on his chest. The forest seemed endless: every tree resembled the next, every boulder looked familiar, as though he were wandering through a closed labyrinth with no exit.

Just as despair began to tighten around his throat, something moved between two pines. Not a bird. Not an animal. A vertical silhouette. Human?

A sharp surge of hope struck his head. The Traveler hurried forward, stumbling, and called out hoarsely:

“Hey! Excuse me! I’m lost… could you tell me how to get to the road?”

The figure froze, then awkwardly stepped back behind the trunk, as if trying to hide.

“Wait, please!” the Traveler cried, his voice breaking and sounding almost pleading. “I won’t hurt you. I only need the road.”

He pushed closer, parting branches and catching on sticky strands of spiderweb. The shorter the distance grew, the clearer the details became. The creature was squat and massive, unnaturally broad-shouldered. Shreds of dark, tattered cloth hung loosely from its frame. It stood with its back turned, concealing its face, and its entire posture radiated a dense, almost tangible fear.

“Don’t be afraid,” the Traveler said, slowing his pace and raising his hands. “I’m unarmed. Are you from here? Do you know the way to the village?”

The creature slowly turned its head. In profile, the Traveler saw a heavy, malformed skull, coarse dark stitches across grayish skin, a twisted earlobe. His heart slammed painfully against his ribs. A wounded man? A mutilated hermit? Icy fear crept into his chest, yet his feet carried him forward all the same.

“Do you… do you need help?” he asked unsteadily. “Did someone hurt you? I can help…”

At the moment his hand touched the creature’s shoulder, it snapped its head around. A shaft of light broke through the branches and fell directly onto its face.

The Traveler froze. His breath stopped.

What stood before him was not a human face but a grotesque imitation—assembled from disparate parts and sewn together with crude stitches. A scar like a frozen lightning bolt split the forehead. And the eyes… enormous, hollow, filled with inhuman pain, ancient terror, and yet an unmistakable, frightened intelligence. They glowed faintly, like two eclipsed moons.

It was neither alive nor dead. It was made. Assembled. Animated—and abandoned.

The world shrank to a tiny patch of forest. Before the Traveler stood the Creature—the one whispered about as a curse. Frankenstein. Not the creator. The created.

The Traveler could neither move nor scream. He was torn between primal terror and a cold, consuming compassion for this embodiment of suffering.