There was no sound except his footsteps.
The gravel beneath his soles made a faint crackling amid the silence of the entangled forest, and the tall trees cast broken lines across his face, as if carving memories rather than guiding the path. The sun was setting, coloring the sky in red, touching the edges of ancient trees that had always preserved this place from being erased from the memory of the earth.
A hut.
Just a hut. It spoke of no glory, carried no scent of bustling communities or family tales. Its roof slightly slanted, its walls clad in dark wood, with ivy creeping up them like… no one knows. The sliding door had a torn part of white paper, fluttering with the wind.
Zenith stood before it without extending his hand. Staring alone was enough to feel the weight. The hut was light like a sickly body, but in his memory… it had been heavier than a mountain.
"Am I returning?" he asked himself in a low voice, not expecting an answer.
