The forest was cold—just as Ren remembered it, as this figure stood before him.
'Poor little soul,' She murmured. 'You're trembling. Even now…your body knows what your mind refuses to accept.' The warmth in her voice tried to reclaim him. 'I know you're tired, Ren…'
Ren said nothing. His fingers only tightened around the dagger's hilt.
Her form drifted closer. 'I can give you rest. Not just peace—rest. No more blood. No more running…No more crying when you think you're alone.'
Ren lowered his head, refusing to look at her.
'I remember your mother's voice,' She continued. 'I can speak it…The lullaby she hummed when the bruises were fresh…when your father's voice still echoed through the walls. Soft little notes to keep her hands from shaking.' Her tone gentled even further. 'Don't you miss her?'
Ren clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay silent.
'The way she held you even when she was afraid. The way she smiled through the pain just to comfort you…' Her smoke-like hands brushed his cheeks. 'You were so small…So sick. So…fragile. Every cough made her fear you wouldn't wake again. But she loved you through all of it. She never stopped.' She leaned closer. 'Ren…I can bring her back.'
Slowly, he lifted his gaze to the faceless void before him.
"I…I will kill you," Ren said in a quiet tone—steady and unwavered. A promise meant only for her to hear. "I don't care how long it takes. I don't care how many times I fall. I don't care if I'm torn apart again and again. With my own hands…I will kill you."
The form did not flinch. She only watched him—if watching was even the right word. The air grew so still he could hear his own heart pounding. Then her form began to unravel, peeling away at the edges.
'You poor little soul. Carrying so much weight…for a boy who was never built to stand.'
And just like that—she vanished.
Painful moans rushed back into the forest. The complete cold returned, biting through Ren's clothes and settling into his bones. For a moment, he couldn't breathe. His shoulders sagged. His grip on the dagger loosened. It had taken everything not to listen. Not to lean into her voice and let it lull him into believing.
'She knew,' Ren realized. 'She knew things she shouldn't. Things I buried so deep I don't even touch them anymore.'
He clenched his jaw, refusing to let the ache in his chest become anything else.
Ren lifted a hand to his face, fingertips brushing where her touch had been. The false warmth still lingered—like a curse. And beneath it, shame. Part of him still wanted to believe she could bring his mother back. That somewhere in this twisted place, comfort could exist without a cost.
But that wasn't real. None of it was.
Ren looked down at the dagger in his hand, its handle slick with sweat.
"How would I even kill her…" He muttered. "She doesn't even bleed."
He wasn't so sure she had a body at all.
She was a fog of memory—voice and sorrow—made just real enough to hurt.
Then, his legs finally moved.
''I know you're tired…'
The words echoed in his mind.
"I never asked for this," Ren debated.
But that wasn't true. He had asked—every time he got back up. Every time he kept walking. Every time he denied her. He chose to carry it all. His mother's love. His father's hate. The recent promise of vengeance. The fear of becoming something worse. A walking corpse…
Because if he dropped it—if he gave in—there would be nothing left of him.
Just another wandering soul under the crimson sky.
Ren kept moving. His steps were slow, unsteady—but they were forward. He didn't know where the path led, but only what waited if he turned back. The trees thinned as he walked, though the cold never left him. The wind howled, breathless murmurs threading through brittle branches.
He adjusted his grip on the dagger, fingers numb.
"Carrying so much weight…for a boy who was never built to stand…"
The words wouldn't leave him. It wasn't even wrong. Ren had never been built for this.
His body had been breaking since childhood—lungs too weak, bones too brittle. The sick boy. The quiet one. The one who couldn't run too fast or breathe too deep.
He remembered lying in bed, the world reduced to ceiling cracks and fevered dreams. While downstairs, the walls rattled with his father's shouting.
And his mother. She would come after—hands trembling, humming softly beneath her breath. Much too quiet for the storm below to hear. She pressed a cool cloth to his forehead. And sung a lullaby like she believed sound alone could hold their world together.
He used to pretend it worked.
Ren stumbled over a gnarled root, barely catching himself.
She offered rest. That was the cruelest part. Not peace. Not salvation. Just rest.
And a part of him—raw and silent—had wanted to say yes.
A world without choking on dirt or blood. A world where he could lie down and stay down.
But then what?
Nothing but just another piece of the forest. Another soul swallowed whole.
He couldn't let that happen. Not when he still remembered her face. She was kind. Soft when the world was cruel. She sang even when she had nothing left to give. And that thing—whatever it was—had dared to wear her voice. Ren's grip tightened in disgust.
"She's not your voice to use," He whispered. "Not your name to speak."
The next time they met, he wouldn't tremble.
He wouldn't hesitate. He would remember who he was. What he carried.
The forest blurred as memory pulled him under.
He was eight.
The world was small then—just his bedroom, a narrow bed, and the ache in his chest. The damp blankets. The raw coughing. Silence pressing against him from the walls.
Footsteps—soft.
The door opened, and his mother slipped inside.
"Hey, baby…" She whispered. Her voice always softened after an argument. "You still awake?"
Ren blinked up at her with those glass-like, grey eyes.
"I had a bad dream," He whimpered. "And my chest hurts."
"I know, sweetheart." She sat beside him, hands trembling as she brushed his hair back. "You've been brave all day, haven't you?"
He caught her sleeve.
"Where's father?"
She hesitated. Her smile didn't quite reach her eyes.
"He went out for a bit."
Bruises bloomed beneath her collarbone, half-hidden by her cardigan. She turned her head—but Ren always noticed.
"I'm sorry I got sick again," He whispered. "If I didn't—"
"Hey." She cupped his face. "Don't say that. You didn't do anything wrong."
"But he said—"
"I don't care what he said!" Her voice sharpened, then softened again. "You didn't make him this way…And you didn't make me stay."
Tears welled in his eyes. "Mother…I just want you to be okay."
Her face cracked for a heartbeat. Then she leaned down and kissed his forehead.
"Sleep now," She whispered. "I'll hum. Just like always."
She tucked the blanket under his chin and began the lullaby—no words. Just sorrow turned into sound. Ren closed his eyes. He didn't want to sleep. He wanted that song to last forever.
And in a way, it did. Because when he woke the next morning—
She was gone.
Back in the forest, dead leaves crunched beneath his boots.
"She sang to me even when she was breaking inside," Ren said aloud, voice tight. "She died because I wasn't enough. Because I kept getting sick. Because she thought she couldn't protect me anymore."
He swallowed the ache down and kept walking—toward whatever waited next.