The world had changed for Peter after his mother died. The vibrant colors of his life faded to a dull gray, and the warmth that once filled their home was replaced by a cold emptiness. But no one changed more than his father. Once a man of kindness and laughter, he had retreated into himself, as if the light had been snuffed out of his soul.
Peter watched helplessly as his father spiraled deeper into despair. He stopped talking to the neighbors, to friends, even to Peter. Each day, he would leave for work early in the morning, only to return late at night, weary and distant. He barely ate, and when he did, it was as though he was forcing himself, not out of hunger, but out of habit.
The silence between them grew heavier with each passing day, thick and suffocating. Peter longed for the days when his father would ruffle his hair and tell him stories of his own childhood, of adventures and mischief. But those days were gone, buried with his mother.
One day, without warning or explanation, Peter's father announced that they were moving. Not just to another part of the city, but far away, to a place on the outskirts, beyond the reach of civilization. Peter didn't understand why, but his father's eyes held a desperation that silenced any protest.
They packed their things quickly—too quickly—and within days, they were driving through endless stretches of forest, deeper into the unknown. The road narrowed as they went, the trees growing taller and denser, until they finally arrived at a small, weather-beaten house nestled at the edge of an ancient forest.
The house was old, its wood gray and cracked, as if it had been standing there for centuries, forgotten by time. It felt as though the house was holding its breath, waiting. For what, Peter couldn't tell.