Out in the distance, I could see the storm of Storms Pass. An unusual name, I know, but once you know of it, it fits. There is always a storm constantly surrounding the village, so violent and unpassable. The only way through to the village is a single pass. It had been this way for as long as any records could remember, just a constant storm surrounding, some even saying protecting the village of Morthryn. People believe the storms will continue long after humanity dies.

People pass by there all the time, but the native people still rule there, and they don't use modern technology. That's why I'm going to be in the quiet and natural land of Morthryn. Let's hope that the surrounding area of storms with lightning and thunder doesn’t reflect on the village, and will be peaceful.

I look forward to this new adventure, but I have no hope of anyone accepting me once they see and get to know me. I grew up with my mom, who passed away two years ago. She was my rock and always knew what to say and do when strange things seemed to happen to me. After my mom passed, no family wanted me, called me the black sheep, and some even feared me, and I have no idea why.

The only family member left and willing to take me in is my aunt, who lives in Morthryn, and I'm hoping that this quiet, peaceful place will bring a new chapter to my dull, lonely life.

As I get to my turn-off to enter Storms Pass, it turns to dirt and starts pouring rain outside. Barely able see outside my windshield because of how heavy the rain was, trying not to veer off the road.

From what I've read, it takes about an hour to get through until you can get to the village. Most people don't know what the other side looks like. In the readings, it is said to have strange things happen, and they either end up turning back in fear or are turned around by the storm to where the exit is where they entered.

As time passes, I hear and see the constant lightning and thunder, just booming outside, making my insides just pound and drum. 30 minutes into my drive, I start to see shapes in the storm, all of them different kinds of animals and people. Couldn't quite discern exactly what I was seeing, just say it was shadowy shapes barely able to determine if it was a beast or a human. This scared me cuz I've never seen anything like that before, and it made me want to turn back.

Knowing I was just 30 minutes away from my destination, I kept pushing myself forward. That's when I start hearing the howling. It was not like an angry howling, it was more of a sound of welcome home greeting me to my new home here at Morthryn. That felt very strange and I didn't know what to think about it and before I could decipher my thoughts and feelings and what's going on the storm start a depart and I could see the end of the road for my new home awaits.

My eyes go wide as I see the landscape there were trees everywhere for miles, I couldn't see the mountains that should have been on the other side of the valley. As I exit the storm I drive up to the car lot for no one is able to take their cars past this spot hints to know technology rule from here I'll have to walk the rest of the way.

According to my Aunt's guide for when I get here I am to wait in the parking lot for my guy to show me the way to my new home. Didn't take long for me to see someone walking up the path I couldn't see their face but he was about 5'3, has hair dark brown hair and he wore only pants no shirt or shoes. I thought it was weird but like I said these people are native. When he got up to me he looked up and smiled.

He had bright green eyes a bright smile olive skin he looked like the age about 17 or so. By far is one of the most beautiful men I've ever seen in my life. I hurried and smiled back but I waited too long he already saw my shock and a smile got wider.

“Hi, I'm James, James Leong” he said in a deep husky voice

“ Um.. hi I'm Bree, Bre--”

“Brielle Ember, I know who you are” he said before I finished and smiled again. “would you like me to show you to your new home?”

My breath hitched. He’d said my full name—the one I never used. The one from documents no one here should have seen. His bright green eyes held mine, and a flush crept up my neck, hot and undeniable. This wasn’t just a guide meeting a stranger; this was a boy who’d been waiting, and the quiet land suddenly felt intensely, watchful.

James just smiled, that easy, wide smile, and turned to lead the way. The path ahead was narrow, a tunnel of damp earth and pine needles. The air was thick with the smell of wet bark and something else—the sharp, clean scent of his sweat as he moved ahead of me. He walked barefoot over roots and stones without a flinch, the muscles of his back shifting under olive skin. I followed, my own boots clumsy on the soft ground, my pulse a frantic bird in my throat.

They walked in silence for a long time, the only sounds the crush of needles underfoot and the distant drip of water from leaves high above. The forest was a green cathedral, hushed and waiting. My irritation grew, he knew my full name. What else did he know?

He slowed until he was beside me. matching my pace without looking over. His shoulder was close enough to brush mine. I kept my eyes forward.

“You’re thinking too loud,” he said, his voice that deep, husky rumble. It didn’t startle me. It felt like it came from the trees themselves.

“You knew my name.”

“I did.”

“How?”

“The land knows its own, Brielle Ember.” He said my name again, slowly, like he was tasting it. “It whispers. To those who listen.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.” He glanced at me then, his green eyes bright even in the shadowed light. “For now.”

The path began to slope upward. The effort warmed me, a different heat joining the one still staining her neck. I was aware of every shift of my backpack, the dampness of my shirt against my spine, the way his bare arm occasionally grazed the sleeve of my jacket. It was an accident. It had to be. But each touch was a tiny, electric shock.

“Tell me about yourself,” he said again, as if their first exchange hadn’t happened. “You look too young to be by yourself.”

I let out a short, hard breath. “I kind of am. I’m turning eighteen soon enough, though.”

“That is young. Why are you by yourself?”

The repeated question, now layered with everything unsaid, felt like a probe against a bruise. “I have nowhere else to go. None of my family wants me. Other than a distant aunt that lives here.” I stopped walking, forcing him to stop too. Turning to face him. “Why are you asking? You should know this.”

He didn’t retreat. He just looked at me, his head tilted slightly. The knowing amusement was gone from his smile, replaced by something quieter. More serious. “I know facts. I don’t know the sound of your voice when you say it. I don’t know what it does here.” He lifted a hand and tapped two fingers gently against the center of my chest, just above the neckline of my shirt.

The contact was brief, barely there, but it stole the air from my lungs. I felt the touch long after his hand fell away—a brand.

“It hurts here,” he said, not a question.

I couldn’t speak. Could only stare at him, at the startling empathy in his ancient young eyes. He saw it. He saw the hollow, aching place my family had left. He’d just laid his fingers on it.

“Come on,” he said softly, his smile returning, gentler now. “Your home is just over this rise. You can be angry with me when you’re not so tired.”

He turned and continued up the path. I stood frozen for a three-count of my hammering heart, then followed. The place where he’d touched throbbed with a warmth that spread outward, confusing me, unsettling the careful guard I’d built.

The trees thinned suddenly, and they emerged into a small, sun-dappled clearing. A single, wide-trunked oak stood sentinel at the far edge, and nestled in its roots was a cottage. It was built of stone and dark, aged wood, with a roof of mossy shingles. Smoke curled from a chimney made of stacked river rock. It looked like it had grown there, patient and enduring.

“This is yours,” James said, stopping at the edge of the clearing.

It was nothing like the sterile, temporary places I’d lived before. This felt like a secret. A gift. The sight of it made my throat tight. “It’s… real.”

“Of course it’s real.” He laughed, a low, pleasant sound. “Where did you think you were going?”

“I don’t know. Nowhere. Anywhere.” I hugged my arms around myself, suddenly conscious of how grimy and road-worn I was in this pristine, quiet place. “Why is it here? For me?”

“It’s always been here,” he said. He walked toward the cottage, trailing after him, drawn like a magnet. “Waiting for you to be ready to walk the path.”

He pushed the heavy wooden door open. It swung inward without a sound. The interior was one main room: a stone fireplace, a rough-hewn table and chairs, a bed piled with wool blankets in the corner. A few shelves held simple clay pots. It was clean, spare, and utterly peaceful. Light fell through a single window in dusty, golden shafts.

James leaned against the doorframe, watching her take it in. “Your Aunt left some supplies. Food. Basics. She’ll come by tomorrow.”

As I walked up to go through the door I notice on the top of the frame a symbol that look like a wolf with a sun and moon behind it and a symbol on the wolf's forehead couldn't quite make it out.

I continued to go in and walked to the table, ran my fingers over the smooth, worn wood. This was mine. The concept was so foreign it felt like a dream. Turning to him. “And you? What do you do?”

“I guide.”

“Just that?”

“For you?” His green eyes held hers across the shadowed room. “For now, just that.”

The emphasis was subtle, but I caught it. For now. The two words hung in the air between them, charged. The watchful feeling of the land intensified here, in this room. It felt focused. It felt like him.

He pushed off the doorframe. “You should rest. The forest at night is… different. Stay inside after dark until you learn its sounds.”

He was leaving. The thought sparked a panic I didn’t understand. I’m used to being alone and craved it. But the idea of him walking back into those silent trees, leaving me in this strange, beautiful silence, felt like abandonment all over again.

“James.”

He paused, half in, half out of the doorway. “Yeah?”

The question that came out wasn’t the one in my head. “Are you cold? Without a shirt?”

He looked down at his own chest as if noticing his state of dress for the first time, then back at her. That wide, knowing smile returned. “No. The land keeps its own warmth.” He took a step back into the clearing. “Sleep well, Brielle Ember.”

Then he was gone, melting into the green shadows of the path without a backward glance.

I stood in the center of the quiet cottage for a long time. The flush on my neck had never faded. It had spread, a slow, warm tide under my skin. Exhausted, my muscles aching from the drive and the walk. But beneath the fatigue was a hum, a low-frequency vibration that hadn’t been there before.

I walked to the open doorway. The clearing was empty. The forest was still. I could see the imprint of his bare feet in the soft earth near the threshold. staring at them, then slowly, deliberately, I toed off my own boots. Pressing my socked foot into the dirt beside his print. The earth was cool, but the memory of his warmth seemed to radiate up through it.

I pulled my foot back as if burned, my face flaming. What was I doing? Closing the heavy door, leaning my back against it. The cottage was dim now, the light fading. It was just me and the gathering quiet.

And the relentless, thrilling, terrifying sense that I was not just in a new place. That I was being seen. For the first time, I was truly, completely seen. And the boy with the green eyes who knew my name had been the one to do it.

The silence after James left was a physical thing. It pressed against my ears, thick and complete, broken only by the distant call of a bird and the slow, settling creak of the old cottage. I stood with my back against the door, the rough wood solid and real, and let the truth of it sink in. This was mine. I pushed away from the door, my socked feet silent on the packed earth floor, and began to explore.

I went to the shelves first. The clay pots were smooth under my fingertips, cool from the room’s shade. One held oats. Another, dried beans. A third was filled with a coarse, pink salt. Basic, practical. Nothing personal. Moving to the fireplace, where a neat stack of wood and kindling waited. My fingers brushed a piece of flint and a steel striker left on the hearthstone. It felt deliberate, like a lesson waiting to be taught.

Then I saw the bed. The wool blankets were thick, woven in deep greens and browns. Sitting on the edge, the frame gave a soft sigh. As I leaned back, my hand brushed something tucked beneath the top blanket. I pulled it out. It was a tunic, simple and undyed, made of soft, worn linen. It was folded neatly. Holding it up. It was too small for my aunt. It was my size.

A shiver that had nothing to do with cold traced my spine. Dropping the tunic as if it were hot, my heart was doing a strange, hard knock against my ribs. Prepared. It had all been prepared. Not just a vacant cottage, but one readied for my arrival. Standing, needing to move, my eyes caught the symbol carved above the doorframe inside. The wolf. The sun and moon. I didn’t get to make out the mark on the wolf’s forehead from outside, but from here, in the dimming light, I can see it clearly. It wasn’t a symbol. It was a word, carved in elegant, unfamiliar script. It looked old. It looked like a name.

Dragging the rough-hewn chair from the table and placed it under the doorway. Standing on it, I could almost reach the carving. The wood was smooth from years of touch. This wasn’t new. This had been here, waiting. My fingers hovered just below the unknown word. The air around it felt different—warmer, charged, like the space just after a lightning strike. I snatched her hand back, stepping down from the chair.

The hum beneath my skin intensified. It was a low, persistent vibration, a feeling of being tuned to a frequency I’d never noticed before. It centered in the place on my chest where James had touched me. That spot still felt warm, alive. Pressing my own fingers over it, through my shirt. My heartbeat was there, fast and frantic.

I was being watched. Not by eyes, but by the land itself. The cottage, the clearing, the silent trees—they were all aware of me. The thought should have terrified me, but instead, a reckless, giddy feeling bubbled up. For so long, I had been invisible. A ghost in my own life. Here, I was seen. Here, I left an imprint in the dirt.

My stomach growled, a sharp, mundane sound that cut through the spiraling thoughts. Food. A task. Going to the supplies my Aunt had left, finding a wrapped bundle of dark bread, a wedge of hard cheese, and a few apples. I ate at the table, the flavors simple and profound. Every bite was quiet. There was no television blaring, no traffic, no raised voices from another room. Just the crackle of her own chewing, the sound of my swallowing.

As I ate, she watched the light in the clearing die. The gold faded to grey, then to a deep, velvety blue. The forest didn’t just get darker; it changed. The shadows between the trees deepened, becoming solid. The air cooling through the open doorway carried new scents—damp earth, night-blooming flowers, something musky and wild.

James’s warning echoed. The forest at night is different. Standing, I walked to the threshold, hugging myself. The first stars were piercing the canopy of sky above the clearing. They were brighter here, sharper, like chips of ice. Looking at the path where he’d disappeared. The imprint of his bare feet was still there, a faint depression in the soil.

Without thinking, I step outside. The earth was cool and soft under my socks. Crouching, my fingers tracing the edge of one print. It was larger than my own hand. The arch, the ball, the faint press of toes. My breath caught. Remembering the easy strength in his bare shoulders, the way his pants sat low on his hips. The memory sent a flush of heat across my skin, so sudden and intense it made me dizzy.

I sat back on my heels, pressing the heels of my hands against my closed eyes. What was wrong with me? He was a stranger. A weird, shirtless boy from a place without electricity. But he’d seen me. He’d looked at the hollow place inside me and hadn’t looked away. He’d touched it. And now I was sitting in the dirt, mooning over his footprint.

I heard a sound and froze. Not a bird, not the wind. A soft crunch, like a careful footstep on pine needles. It came from the tree line to my left. Going utterly still, my blood turning to ice in my veins. The watchful feeling of the land sharpened into a pinpoint of attention. I wasn’t just being seen now. I was being observed.

Slowly, I turned her head. Between the dark trunks, two points of light gleamed back at her. Not reflections. They were too low to the ground, and they held their own pale, greenish glow. Eyes. They blinked, once, slowly. They were far too large to be a fox, too still to be a deer.

Panic, clean and electric, shot through me. James’s voice in her head: Stay inside. I scrambled backward, my socks slipping on the dirt, until my back hit the doorframe. Fumbling behind me for the solid wood, my eyes locked on those twin points of light. They didn’t advance. They just watched.

With a gasp, hauling myself inside and slammed the door shut, throwing the heavy wooden bar across it. Stand there, panting, my ear pressed to the grain. I heard nothing. No snuffling, no retreating footsteps. Just the vast, breathing silence of the night forest.

My heart was a wild drum against my ribs. The fear was real, a cold sweat on my neck. But underneath it, thrumming in time with my pulse, was that same low hum. Excitement. The eyes in the dark hadn’t felt malicious. They had felt… curious. Assessing. Like James’s gaze.

I lit a single candle from the hearth with trembling hands. The small flame pushed the shadows back, carving a sphere of fragile safety in the room. The cottage felt different at night. Smaller. Closer. The symbol above the door seemed to drink the candlelight.

I changed into the linen tunic I found. It was soft against my skin, smelling of herbs and sun. It fit perfectly. Blowing out the candle and crawling into the bed, pulling the heavy wool blankets up to my chin. The darkness was absolute. I lay there, listening. The forest was not silent. It was a symphony of tiny sounds—the skitter of insects, the sigh of branches, the distant call of something that was neither owl nor wolf.

I thought of James, walking this path in the dark. Was he barefoot? Was he cold? The image of him, moving through the black trees with that unerring grace, made my stomach tighten. My hand drifted back to the spot on my chest. In the dark, the memory of his touch was vivid. The slight roughness of his fingertips. The shocking warmth. The way my breath had simply… stopped.

The sounds of the forest intensified as I fell asleep, weaving into my dreams not as a threat, but as a welcome. The distant howl was a lullaby, the rustle in the undergrowth a whispered secret meant for my ears alone. Sleeping deeper than I had in years, the wool blankets a heavy, comforting weight, the strange hum in my chest a steady, soothing pulse.