Chapter 3: “Echoes of the Past”

IVY

Ivy sat beside the hearth with a bundle of dried wormwood in her lap. She wasn't even sure why she picked it. Her hands worked on reflex, but her mind wasn't in the room.

Her thoughts were tangled back in the forest, caught on strange bouquets and the phantom of eyes that glowed like storm-lit dusk.

She hadn't returned to the woods today. For the first time in weeks.

She told herself she was resting. But really, she was scared.

Not of him.

Of herself.

Scared because part of her wanted to go back. Not to harvest. Not to heal. But to be seen.

It was dangerous, that feeling. She knew the warnings. Her mother had whispered them like prayers in the dead of night. Ivy remembered how she used to tremble in her bed as a child, after her cousin disappeared beyond the tree line.

They never found her cousin's body. Just a scattering of bones and a ring of mushrooms burned black at the edges.

Everyone said it was wolves.

But her mother knew better.

Her mother had said, "The forest doesn't take without reason. It sees something in you, and then it keeps you."

At the time, Ivy thought it was superstition. A thing to make children behave.

Now… she wasn't so sure.

She tucked the dried wormwood into a pouch and stood. Her fingers shook. Not from fear—but from the cold absence of him.

She missed him.

Or maybe, more honestly, she missed being watched.

THE DEMON

He had no name now. Names were for men, for gods, and for things that needed to be called and controlled.

He'd had a name once, before the forest swallowed it—swallowed him—and remade him in root and bone and hunger.

Now, he simply was.

He watched her from the folds of shadow and bark.

Not just her steps in the forest. But the way her breath hitched when she saw his offerings. The way her fingers hovered—reverent—over gifts she could not explain.

She had not come today.

He felt the emptiness like rot in the soil.

He paced the edge of the forest, claws scraping bark, his body twitching with a need he could not name. It was not hunger. It was not anger.

It was worse.

Longing.

When had it begun?

Was it the first time he saw her kneeling beside a feverfew bush, eyes soft and mouth trembling with some quiet grief?

Or had it been the first time she spoke aloud to no one?

She always did that—muttered things to the wind.

As if she knew he was there.

Maybe she did.

Humans were strange. Fragile. But Ivy… she carried her pain like armor. And he admired that.

She didn't run from the forest like the others.

She walked toward it.

Toward him.

So he followed.

IVY

Night had settled again by the time she allowed herself to light a candle. The silence of her cottage pressed in tight. The bouquet by the window had wilted slightly. She didn't replace it. Couldn't bring herself to throw it away, either.

She walked over and touched one of the petals.

It crumbled beneath her finger like ash.

Then she heard it.

A soft knock.

Not on her door.

On her window.

She turned slowly.

There was nothing there.

But the candle flickered, even though the air was still.

She took a cautious step forward.

Outside, in the darkness beyond the glass, something shifted. Not a sound. Not a form.

But a presence.

He was watching.

Still.

She could feel it.

Her pulse jumped. Her skin prickled. Her breath caught—but not in fear.

In recognition.

Like she was remembering something she'd never lived.

Like the forest was a story she'd read before, and he was her favorite line.

She pressed her hand to the window. Just once. Just a second.

Then she stepped back.

She wouldn't run.

Not yet.

THE DEMON

She felt him.

He knew it.

The connection was fragile now—newly spun silk between them—but it was there.

She had touched the glass.

She had welcomed him.

He pressed his fingers to the tree beside her home. Bark cracked under his claw. He could taste her scent in the air. Lavender. Smoke. Fear. Curiosity.

A dangerous combination.

He would wait.

Watch.

Learn.

She was not ready yet.

But she would be.

The forest had chosen her long ago. It was only a matter of time.

And when she came again…

He would not stay hidden.

He would speak.

He would claim.