The Boy

The sun cast long, dappled shadows across the wooden floor as Anya glanced nervously at the open window. The chill of the forest beyond seeped into the small, dim room, whispering of freedom, danger, and things left behind. A distant shout echoed from the village square, jolting her heart into a panicked rhythm. The time had come.

With a practiced motion, she climbed onto the ledge and leapt, the thrum of adrenaline coursing through her limbs. The ground met her with a jarring embrace, sending a sharp pain up her legs, but she kept moving. She couldn’t afford to falter. The woods called to her, a labyrinth of gnarled trees and dark secrets.

As she ran, the underbrush grabbed at her skirts, and the crunch of leaves and twigs betrayed her path. But she didn’t dare slow down. Anya’s breath came in ragged gasps, each one a fragile promise to herself that she would not look back. Not at the house with its cold stone walls, not at the hollow silence of her mother’s room, and certainly not at the shadow that loomed larger with each passing day.

A sudden motion to her right stopped her dead in her tracks. A man with broad shoulders and a beard the color of rust stood among the trees, a woodcutter. He eyed her with surprise, his axe still poised in mid-swing. Before he could react, Anya lunged, fingers curling around the handle of a rough-hewn stick that leaned against a stump.

“Sorry,” she muttered, though the apology was lost in the wind as she ran past him.

The wood felt solid and warm against her palm, grounding her amid the chaos. She burst through a thicket and into a clearing where a boy stood, his back to her. Tall, with dark hair that curled at the nape of his neck, he turned at the sound of her ragged breath. His eyes, wide with recognition, met hers, but he barely had time to open his mouth before Anya brought the stick down on him with all the force she could muster.

The crack reverberated through her bones, and the boy crumpled, a startled cry stifled by the impact. He fell to his knees, eyes still locked on hers, not with anger or fear, but with something that looked like understanding. The stick slipped from her grasp and landed at his side, blood smearing its rough surface.

Anya staggered back as the boy collapsed, his body folding onto the ground like a marionette cut from its strings. A sudden, dreadful silence enveloped the clearing. The wind seemed to hold its breath, and even the trees ceased their rustling.

A heartbeat later, the boy’s mouth moved, his voice rasping out a whisper that barely reached her ears.

“O girl.”

It was an old phrase, one that resonated with tales from their village—the stories of betrayal, vengeance, and impossible choices. The words hung between them like a prophecy, chilling Anya to her core.

Then his eyes closed, and he moved no more.

Anya’s chest heaved as she stared at the lifeless body before her, the stick streaked red against the autumn leaves. Her vision blurred, and her knees buckled beneath her. What had she done? The question pulsed through her, clawing at her mind until it became a roar that drowned out everything else.

A voice from her childhood surfaced. Her mother, stooped over their small hearth, eyes hollow but voice steady. “They will tell you stories, Anya, but remember this: every story is a lie until you write your own.”

The thud of footsteps shattered the memory. Shouts carried through the trees as the village guards neared, drawn by the echoes of violence. Panic gripped her, and she scrambled to her feet. She took one last look at the boy, the nameless shadow of the village’s cautionary tales, now nothing but blood and silence.

Without another thought, Anya bolted deeper into the forest.

The woods swallowed her, their ancient arms closing in like a protective shroud. She ran until her lungs burned and her legs threatened to give out. Finally, she collapsed beside a fallen tree, its surface draped in moss and crumbling bark. Her fingers found the rough texture and dug in, grounding herself in the physicality of the moment.

The boy’s face haunted her. His last expression, devoid of accusation, left her with a hollowness that gnawed at her insides. It wasn’t guilt that she felt but something more elusive—an ache that whispered of unfinished stories.

An owl hooted somewhere above, its call a stark reminder of time passing. Anya closed her eyes and let the dark embrace her, willing her racing mind to quiet. But the boy’s final words looped endlessly: “O girl.”

When she opened her eyes again, the moon had risen, casting silver veins through the canopy. The shouts had long faded, and the forest was a symphony of creaks and rustles. A figure moved in the shadows ahead, and Anya’s pulse quickened. She reached for a stone, fingers tightening around its cold weight.

“Put that down.” The woodcutter stepped into the moonlight, his face carved with shadows and worry. He looked older than she’d first thought, eyes lined with the wear of long days.

“Why are you here?” she demanded, voice breaking.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he glanced behind him, toward the direction of the village. “There are stories in this forest, girl,” he said. “Some true, some twisted beyond recognition.”

“I don’t need stories,” Anya said, though her voice wavered.

The woodcutter’s gaze met hers, unblinking. “Maybe not. But the boy you killed—he carried one, and so do you.”

Anya’s grip on the stone faltered. The boy’s face swam before her, a mix of recognition and something unsaid. The woodcutter’s words dripped with foreboding, with the promise of a truth she wasn’t ready to face but could no longer ignore.

The forest, alive with whispers and unseen eyes, seemed to draw closer. And Anya, shaken but no longer running, knew that her story was just beginning.