The forest had teeth.

  The branches reached like blackened fingers, clawing at her hair, her skin, her breath.

  Nine ran. Faster than she ever thought her body could move. Faster than thought, faster than sound.

  The air scraped her lungs with every gasp. Blood smeared her arms, her cheeks, her shirt—his blood, or hers, or both, she didn’t know anymore.

  The pistol bounced in her grip, too heavy for her small hands, too real for her to believe it belonged to her. Her fingers locked around it like a prayer and a curse at once.

  The forest floor was alive beneath her. Mud and roots and dead leaves.

  Each step was a heartbeat; each crack of a twig, a confession.

  Her mind was unraveling into pieces of memory.

  “Don’t be scared,” he whispered. His voice echoed like a lullaby dragged through static. “Once the demon is killed, the soldier can see the end. Run for him. Run away from here. Take the gun, and run.”

  He had smiled when he said it. That soft, terrible smile — the kind only the dying or the damned could wear. “Good girl,” Ten whispered. “Now pull the trigger.”

  Then the sound.

  Bang.

  And then —

  Silence.

  Nothing.

  Nine’s feet caught a root. Her body pitched forward. She let out a small yelp.

  Smack.

  Face-first into a freezing puddle. Mud and water rushed up her nose, into her mouth. She tasted dirt and iron.

  The gun skidded out of her hand and struck a rock with a sharp metallic clang.

  She stayed where she fell. Stunned. Trembling.

  Then her shoulders began to shake — not from cold, but from the sudden, sickening realization that she had shot her best friend...

  When she rolled onto her back, the branches above looked like ribs of a dying beast.

  The barely risen sun fractured between them like broken glass, its pale light trembling on her skin.

  She reached up and felt her face. Blood. Still warm. Still hers.

  Did I pull the trigger? Did I kill him? You said, “Once the demon is killed…” Who was the demon? You? Me? The world? Why? Why did you want to die? I wanted you to live. I wanted you to see the end of the world with me.

  Her breath caught.

  Her throat burned.

  She didn’t know. She couldn’t remember the angle of the gun, the way his body fell, the sound of it hitting the ground — only his eyes, calm and filled with something horrifyingly peaceful.

  Why did you want me to do that? Why didn’t you run with me?

  She curled into herself, small and shaking, hands clamped over her ears as though she could drown out her own thoughts.

  A dry sob tore through her. Another followed. Then more.

  The puddle turned red as the water soaked into her sleeves.

  She was only seven years old. But her bones carried the weight of someone older, like the mother she once was in her past life.

  The wind shifted, brushing the trees like the whisper of something ancient. The sound of the leaves wasn’t quite natural — it almost spoke.

  She didn’t move. Couldn’t.

  Time melted into a colorless fog. Her hair clung to her face. Her body was bruised and scraped, her small frame trembling with every breath.

  The gun lay beside her, half-sunk in the mud — smaller now, like a toy from a nightmare.

  Was he dead? Did I kill him? Or did someone else pull the trigger while I watched? I don't know...

  The memory refused to settle. It twisted and folded in on itself like origami made of lies. Maybe her mind had bent the truth just to keep her from shattering.

  And maybe — maybe the truth was worse than anything she could imagine.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Kazou sat at Ten’s bedside, his fingers still resting lightly on the boy’s arm. The faint hum of the monitors filled the room, their rhythm too steady, too lifeless to be a human pulse.

  Rose stood near the foot of the bed, arms crossed — not in defiance this time, but in self-defense. It looked like she was holding her ribs together, afraid something inside would spill out if she didn’t.

  “I can’t believe this is him,” she whispered.

  Akane knelt, setting a book on the nightstand — its cover worn and soft from being read too many times.

  Berend Vos: The Forgotten Soldier.

  Kazou’s eyes followed it. A story about a man lost to war, searching for home long after his body had forgotten what “home” meant.

  They stood in silence.

  Machines breathed for him. The room smelled like bleach and rain.

  Then Rose spoke, her voice breaking the quiet. “What if Nine thinks he’s dead?”

  Kazou looked up sharply.

  “If she saw the blood… if she heard the shot—”

  “Then she’s running,” Akane finished softly. “Alone. Thinking she killed him. Thinking she’ll never see him again.”

  It hung in the air, a truth too heavy to touch.

  Before anyone could answer, the nurse entered quietly.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Visiting hours are over. He needs to rest.”

  Kazou didn’t argue. He simply looked at Ten one last time, the boy who had lived through something he shouldn’t have — and rose to leave.

  As the nurse closed the door, the click sounded like a gunshot muffled by distance.

  “I’ll find Nine,” Kazou muttered. Then the true killer. And I’ll put an end to this murderer.”

  The rain had stopped.

  The world was colorless again.

  Ten’s eyes opened.

  The ceiling was white, too white. The light overhead hummed like an insect trapped in glass.

  For a long time, he only stared. His chest rose and fell in shallow rhythm, the air stinging his lungs like smoke.

  Then he saw it.

  The book.

  Still on the nightstand.

  Berend Vos: The Forgotten Soldier.

  Something inside him stirred — a flicker of recognition buried under pain and sedation. His hand rose, trembling, and touched the cover.

  It was cold.

  He opened it slowly. The pages sighed, like an old friend waking from a long sleep. His finger stopped on a passage marked by a faint brown smear — blood, dried and rusted into the paper.

  So if you feel a tapping,

  Or hear a mournful moan…

  It might just be the soldier,

  Looking for his home.

  Or perhaps, his mother.

  Ten’s lips parted.

  “I remember now,” he whispered.

  He tore the IV from his arm. The machine screamed in alarm. A thin line of blood traced down his wrist, a ribbon of red on white skin.

  “I was supposed to die,” he said. “But she told me to live.”

  He stood. The tile bit into his feet. A droplet from the IV fell and burst on the floor like a tiny universe collapsing.

  He didn’t look back.

  When the nurses rushed in, the bed was empty, the window open, curtains were blowing in the wind.

  The night swallowed him.

  Ten’s silhouette moved through the mist, small and fragile against the vast dark. His hospital gown clung to his body, soaked with dew and blood. His footprints glowed faintly under the moon, red smears that vanished into the earth.

  He clutched the book to his chest.

  “I’ll find you,” he murmured. “Mother… I’ll find you. I promise.”

  Every word shook like glass. The forest answered in creaks and sighs — its branches groaning like an old cathedral.

  Sometimes he stopped and turned, certain he could hear breathing just beyond the trees.

  Elsewhere, another heartbeat echoed the same rhythm.

  Nine stumbled forward, limping. Her once-pink dress hung in tatters, slick with mud and dried blood. The forest light turned her skin grey, almost translucent. Her eyes were sunken but wild.

  She whispered to herself. To no one.

  Throw away the gun and run away. Throw away the gun…

  Every sound made her flinch. Every silence was worse.

  Sometimes she thought she heard his voice. Sometimes she thought she was the voice.

  Her mind had cracked open, and the night poured in.

  At dawn, Ten reached the river.

  The water was slow, like veins pulsing under the skin of the world. He knelt, staring at his reflection — pale, hollow eyes ringed with violet.

  He whispered, “She wanted to see the end. So I’ll find her. We’ll see it together.”

  He followed the river downstream until the forest changed — until the trees grew thinner, the air heavier, like the world itself was holding its breath.

  Nine sat beside a fallen log, her arms wrapped around her knees. She looked more ghost than girl. Her head tilted toward the sound of footsteps.

  “…Nine?”

  Her heart stopped.

  The voice was impossibly familiar — small, fragile, human.

  She looked up.

  Through the mist, a boy stood — barefoot, hospital gown fluttering, hair plastered to his forehead. In his hands, the book. His eyes glimmered blue beneath the pale dawn.

  “Ten?”

  Neither moved. The space between them stretched like eternity.

  Then he stumbled forward.

  She rose, unsteady.

  Their breaths broke into sobs before they even met.

  They collided in the clearing, both falling to their knees in the mud. Their arms locked. Their bones shook.

  The sound she made wasn’t a cry. It was older — something between prayer and nightmare.

  She grabbed his face.

  “Are you real? Am I dreaming? Are we dead? Tell me, what happened?”

  Ten’s voice cracked. “No. You’re alive.”

  She trembled. Tears streaked her face, carving clean lines through the dirt.

  “Then tell me my name. Tell me who I am.”

  He hesitated, searching the fog for the memory. Then, softly:

  “Sasha. Sasha Bielska.”

  Her breath shuddered.

  “Sasha… that was me… That was my name..."

  He nodded.

  “And I’m Casimir. Casimir Bielska. Your son.”

  She blinked, as if the name itself burned her throat.

  Her hand covered her mouth. A sound escaped her — half-laughter, half-scream.

  “Casimir… you found me.”

  He smiled, faint and broken. “You said you wanted to see the end. Let’s see it together.”

  The forest hushed.

  They held each other until their bodies gave out.

  The book slipped from his hand and landed between them, open to the final page. The line had been crossed out by a streak of blood, rewritten by something neither could name.

  So if you feel a tapping,

  Or hear a mournful moan…

  It might just be the soldier,

  Looking for his home.

  Or perhaps, his mother…

  Or perhaps — himself.

  The wind rose, lifting the pages like wings.

  Sasha’s hand found Casimir’s. Their eyes fluttered shut. They collapsed together in the mud, faces turned toward each other, still breathing — barely.

  A flock of birds took flight overhead, their cries cutting the silence like knives.

  Then quiet.

  Only the open book remained, its pages turning gently in the wind,

  as if it, too, were trying to remember how to breathe.