Nathaniel awoke to the sound of muffled voices beyond his apartment door, the hum of early morning mingling with the city's relentless pulse. His body was stiff, his neck sore from where he'd fallen asleep over his desk, but the pages in front of him, scrawled with the story of the boy, held him transfixed. The air in the room felt thick, weighed down with something he couldn't name. He brushed a finger over the latest lines he'd written, feeling as if he were touching his own scars.
In the story, the boy had ventured further into the forest, where strange shapes loomed in the fog—broken mirrors, shattered glass, twisted fragments of old memories that flickered in and out of view. It was a place Nathaniel knew all too well. In his mind, the forest became a landscape of his own grief, where each fragment was a memory half-buried and sharp-edged, waiting to cut.
As he read over the pages, he saw flashes of his life in the images he'd created: a boy on his brother's shoulders, laughing under the summer sun; two boys daring each other to jump off the highest branch of the old oak tree; the sound of a favorite song playing in the car, right before the accident. He'd buried these moments in layers of numbness, hidden them so deep he'd almost convinced himself they no longer mattered. Yet here they were, surfacing in his story, finding their way out in the words he couldn't say aloud.
It was then he realized he wasn't simply writing the boy's story—he was trying to piece together his own, trying to make sense of the fragments he'd been left with after his brother's death. He thought of the therapist he'd abandoned after a handful of sessions, how she'd gently suggested that he confront his past instead of running from it. He'd ignored her advice, choosing instead to let the pain fester in silence. But now, with each word he wrote, he felt a strange sense of release, like he was loosening the grip of something that had held him prisoner for far too long.
That afternoon, as the sun began to sink, he wrote another scene. The boy stumbled upon a clearing in the forest where old memories hung in the air like ghosts—moments of joy, of loss, of regret. He watched as the boy reached out to touch one, only to pull his hand back, his fingers trembling. Nathaniel poured every bit of his own hesitation, his own fear, into that moment, every instinct he had to turn away from his past instead of facing it.
He'd been afraid, he realized, of who he might become without the weight of his grief. For so long, he'd carried it like armor, letting it protect him from everything and everyone. But as he wrote, he wondered if letting go might free him instead.
That night, Nathaniel lit a candle on his desk, the small flame casting shadows on the walls. He wrote for hours, filling page after page with the boy's journey. The forest twisted and grew darker, the shadows deepening as the boy pressed forward, as he searched for a way out of the maze of broken things.
And somehow, Nathaniel knew that if he could lead the boy out of the darkness, he might just find his own way back to the light.