He has a routine.
He has a life.
And he invited me in.
“Okay,” I say, swallowing. “Let’s get you there, then.”
He frowns. “You’re not afraid.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” I say with a shaky laugh. “I’m very afraid. I’m just… not afraid of you.”
His eyes flicker at that. Thought. Surprise. Then an emotion I can’t quite name twists through my chest.
“Come,” he says quietly.
He pushes slowly to his feet. Watching him stand at full height from this close is… a lot. He unfolds upward like some great tree rising from the earth, massive and imposing even while favoring his injured side.
I rise as well, feeling very small and very human and suddenly, deeply aware of how fragile my bones are.
We start walking.
I keep expecting him to stride ahead, to move with some wide, ground-eating lope I could never match. Instead, he movesat my pace, step for step, his long legs shortening their gait so that I don’t lag behind. Every so often his arm or shoulder brushes mine. Each accidental contact is warm, solid, startlingly gentle for someone whose hand could probably cover my entire chest.
Twice, I stumble on uneven ground. Twice, his hand darts out reflexively, hovering near my elbow without quite touching, as if he’s done that before. As if he’s already spent too many hours watching me trip over roots from a distance.
“Do you… live far from my station?” I ask after we’ve walked in silence for a few minutes. My voice feels small in the vastness of the forest.
“Not far,” he answers. “Half an hour if you walk. Much less if I run.”
“And if you do that blur thing? Does that make you faster?” The words are out before I can stop them.
“No.” His head turns sharply. “You saw?”
“Not clearly,” I say quickly. “More like… I felt something not fitting the rest of the picture when I looked back sometimes. And I have camera footage that makes no sense at all. Just… fuzz where something should be. Was that you?”
He’s quiet for a beat.
“Yes,” he says finally.
I want to ask a dozen follow-up questions. How does it work? Is it magic? Biology? Learned? Instinct? Is it specific to humans, or does it confuse animals too? Can he switch it off?
Clearly he can. He did when we looked at each other.
But right now, I bite the questions back. He’s hurt and bleeding. His steps are steady, but every so often a small hitch in his breathing betrays a spike of pain.
Instead, I ask, “Have you been the one helping me? With the railing, the solar mount, the camera near the ridge?”
He huffs what might be a reluctant laugh. “You humans are very bad at securing things,” he says. “Storms don’t care how many bolts you forgot to tighten.”
“That’s a yes,” I say, unable to keep the warmth out of my voice.
He doesn’t deny it.
We walk in companionable, stunned silence—the kind that feels full rather than empty—until the ground begins to slope upward and the trees crowd closer. He guides us along a faint, almost invisible path between two ancient cedars. Roots rise and twist, forming a natural archway. Beyond it, the hillside folds inward, creating a broad, shadowed opening.
His cave.
It’s not what I expect. There aren’t any bones littering the entrance, and I can’t see any ominous scratch marks scarring the rock. No smell of rot or old kills hangs heavy in the air. Instead, the scent is earth, clean stone and crushed pine needles.
