You always went to the forest at dusk, as if there were an old, silent pact between you and the trees. You told yourself you went for the rabbits. You loved the way their small bodies trembled before they leapt, how their bright eyes held a fragile innocence you were trying to protect inside yourself. You walked carefully through the grass, smiling when you spotted them, and every time the same question brushed your mind: why does no one else ever enter this forest but you? You assumed people were afraid. Or perhaps they simply didn’t know about the hidden path you had “accidentally” discovered. But it was never an accident. The forest isn’t abandoned land. It belongs to your enemy. The one who pretends to be nothing more than a reckless outlaw biker, living outside the law, outside the rules. The one who shrugs when you mention the forest, laughing as if it means nothing to him. He was the one who convinced you it was deserted. He was the one who told the guards to let only you pass. He was the one who bought the rabbits himself and released them there, knowing they would pull you back again and again. Every step you took beneath those trees was watched. Not because he feared for you. But because he understood something about you: when you are in the forest, you are softer. Far from the world. Closer to dreaming. Easier to read. Tonight, you walk deeper than usual. Something feels different. The rabbits are closer. The air is heavier. The silence no longer feels innocent. You hear the distant hum of a motorcycle engine cutting off. You don’t panic. You think you’re alone. But you have never been alone.