He walked until the trees thinned and the night regained its rhythm. The Quiet Hour had ended, and the forest was slowly remembering itself—crickets resumed their timid chirping, leaves rustled again, and a soft cool breeze returned to its wandering.
But the stillness inside him remained.
He reached a small clearing where a boulder sat like an old sentinel. The moonlight slipped through the canopy in narrow silver lines, enough for him to see without a fire. He preferred it that way. Fire drew things—beasts, people, memories.
He sat on the boulder, exhaling quietly.
His arm still stung where the beast had slashed him.
A small laugh escaped him—automatic, the echo of pain.
He ignored it.
Instead, he pulled the envelope from his cloak.
The seal had cracked in his grip earlier, as if eager to free itself. The parchment was yellowed, edges curled, its fibers brittle from age. But the writing—
His breath caught.
His name was written in a hand he had not seen for years.
A hand he had hoped never to see again.
A hand he had memorized long before he understood the weight of memories.
His jaw clenched.
"Not now," he whispered into the night. "Not you."
But the past was stubborn. It always found a way to slip through the cracks of the present, especially at sunset.
He broke the envelope open.
A single sheet slid out, folded carefully as though the one who wrote it had believed the words deserved honor.
He hesitated only a moment before unfolding it.
There were three lines.
Only three.
My child,
When the sun sets on the day you are found,
do not run from the shadow that finds you.
Follow it.
His heart stopped.
The handwriting—there was no doubt.
No room for doubt.
It was hers.
His mother's.
He stared at the words until the letters blurred.
The paper trembled in his hand, though he kept the rest of himself still.
Stillness was his shield. Always had been.
He folded the letter slowly, carefully, reverently.
Then he laughed.
It was soft, short, painful.
Not at the words—no. At the impossibility.
She had died seven years ago.
He had seen it.
Not imagined, not dreamt—seen.
Her hand going slack.
Her voice swallowed by the Quiet Hour.
Her eyes catching the last light of that cursed setting sun.
And yet here her handwriting was.
On parchment older than her death.
Given by a dying man who had spoken of "again."
He pressed his fingertips to his temples, trying to steady the sudden storm inside him.
"Not possible," he whispered.
"…not possible."
But fate rarely cared for possibility.
Something rustled behind him.
A twig.
A soft misstep.
His hand went to his sword.
"Whoever you are," he called quietly, "don't make me repeat myself."
Silence.
Then a young voice—uncertain, nervous:
"H-hey, easy! I'm not armed!"
The boy turned.
A figure emerged from behind a tree—a teenage boy, no older than seventeen, with messy dark hair and a satchel clutched to his chest like it might protect him from the world. His clothes were patched, his face smudged with dirt, and his eyes were wide with fear.
"Who are you?" the swordsman asked.
The boy gulped. "J-just a traveler. I heard… laughing. Then silence. Then more laughing. I thought maybe someone needed help."
The swordsman sighed. "…Bad timing."
"I tend to have that," the boy said with a wary smile. "May I… sit?"
Against his better judgment, he nodded.
The teen sat a few paces away, legs crossed, eyeing the sword cautiously.
"You alone?" the swordsman asked.
"Yes. Mostly. Usually."
The boy cleared his throat. "I don't mean to pry, but… are you okay?"
He didn't respond.
The teen tried again. "I saw a body back there. A man in dark robes. And a… um… dead beast too."
He swallowed. "Did you—?"
"Yes," the swordsman said, not looking at him. "Both."
"Oh."
A pause.
"…Are you dangerous?"
"Yes."
The teen froze.
"But only when need be."
The silence stretched until the boy exhaled shakily.
"Alright." He laughed awkwardly. "That's… reassuring. Sort of."
The swordsman glanced at him. "Why are you following strangers in a forest at night?"
"Because I hate silence," the teen replied quickly. "It reminds me of… things."
The swordsman's gaze softened—barely.
"I see."
The boy's eyes drifted to the envelope in his hand. "You looked… shaken. The letter… it's important?"
He said nothing.
He just slipped the letter back into his cloak, its weight suddenly heavier than steel.
"It shouldn't exist," he murmured.
The teen tilted his head. "But it does."
He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing slowly.
The teen waited.
Finally, he spoke:
"When the sun sets tomorrow," the swordsman said, voice low, "I will follow a shadow."
"That sounds ominous."
"It is."
The teen swallowed nervously. "…Should I come with you?"
"No."
"Will I anyway?"
The swordsman opened his eyes and looked at him.
The kid had trembling hands, uneven breath, and courage that was more instinct than strength.
But courage, nonetheless.
He almost smiled.
"Do what you want," he said, standing.
He gathered his cloak, sheathed his sword, and faced the east—where dawn would rise.
Tomorrow, he would follow the shadow.
Tomorrow, he would step into the path his mother had somehow foreseen.
Tomorrow, fate would tighten its grip.
He began walking.
Behind him, the teen scrambled to his feet.
"Wait! At least tell me your name!"
The swordsman didn't turn.
"Names," he said quietly, "have a way of shaping fate."
"That's… not an answer."
He paused.
Then, with a small exhale that might have been amusement—or exhaustion—he replied:
"You can call me Naren."
The teen smiled. "I'm Rafi."
Naren nodded once.
They walked into the night, two shadows cutting through the forest.
And somewhere, far beneath the world's skin, fate stirred.