Let it still be me

My knees buckle and I pitch forward, catching myself on a root slick with moss. Each step drags more than the last. The trees blur together, and it feels like the ground itself is pulling me down. It tilts beneath, promising rest if I stop fighting it. My vision swims, branches weaving and splitting apart, as if the forest moves when I blink too slow. My head dips lower with every sway and the thought of sinking into the dirt almost feels like mercy. But I was raised on whispers that the earth stirs after dark, that unseen hands drift through soil, grass and fallen leaves, feeling for warmth to crawl inside.

I stare up. Branches stretch above me like veins lit through thin skin, faint lines of starlight tracing the gaps. Climbing feels impossible, but the thought of staying on the ground is worse. I linger there until fear overcomes exhaustion. Another moment and I press my fingers into the bark and drag myself upward. Each pull tears at my hands, the bark biting until my grip turns slick and unreliable. I claw harder, nails bending under the strain, trying to keep hold where the wood keeps slipping from me. By the time I wedge myself between two thick branches, my chest is heaving and my vision flickers at the edges.

I tell myself I am safe here. Ghosts are said to move low, sliding across earth, never lifting from it, because the soil still remembers the weight of their bodies. But I believe the sky simply refuses them, shutting them out and pressing them back down where they came from. Higher ground belongs to birds and clouds. Yet when the wind passes through the canopy, the branches creak like voices. I close my eyes and hear them whispering, close enough to warm my ear.

The forest is never quiet. Something cracks in the distance. Wood splitting. A footfall? The call of an owl rises next, sharp and sudden. For a moment I believe it is a cry of pain. I hold myself tighter against the trunk and whisper that it is only a bird, nothing more. I repeat it until the words stop feeling like lies.

My body slumps, too heavy to keep upright. Every time my head dips, I see something new in the dark. Shapes flicker below, pale as smoke. I blink and they vanish. The more I try to focus, the less I see. My eyes trick me and my thoughts fill the gaps with stories I do not want to believe.

A low rustle crawls across the forest floor. The sound moves slow, circling, like it knows exactly where I sit. It could be a boar. It could be a fox nosing through leaves. But the rhythm feels wrong. No pause, no break in its sweep. A steady shifting, like cloth dragged across dirt.

I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste iron. My eyes burn but I do not dare close them. If I blink too long, the forest may change again.

Time folds in on itself. I do not know if minutes or hours pass before I see them. Two faint points glow from below. They do not move. They only stare.

The old warnings surface at once. One says ghosts take offense when you meet their gaze. Another insists they hunger for it, searching for the smallest welcome they can twist open. I do not know which to believe, only that both demand I look away. My mouth dries, but the words come without thought.

I’m sorry for looking. I offer no welcome. No harm. No harm. God protect me.

My voice cracks. The eyes do not fade. I repeat the words again. Louder.

I’m sorry for looking. I offer no welcome.

My throat aches but I keep speaking, as if sound alone can shield me.

No harm. God protect me.

On the third repetition I swear the eyes shift, tilting with curiosity. My stomach twists. Even the wind stops. The forest holds its breath.

I press my face against the bark, shaking. Perhaps it was only an animal. A wolf pausing before the hunt. Yet the thought does not comfort me. I know wolves, and even in patience their eyes do not burn like that.

My arms grow numb where they cling to the branch. My head dips lower. I abruptly wake up and almost slip. Terror shoots through me like a sharp hunting arrow. I cannot fall — the ground will take me.

The forest stirs again. More cracks, like weight shifting from tree to tree. Or perhaps bones breaking in the dark. Every sound bends toward a meaning I cannot trust. The branch I sit on groans as though someone else has climbed to join me.

I whisper prayers without order. Fragments of blessings learned long ago, half remembered. My breath fogs the bark. My teeth chatter, though the night is not that cold.

Each moment stretches longer than I can count. My thoughts come jagged, broken into fragments. If I sleep, they will find me. If I stay awake, I will still die here. Both truths weigh the same.

I try to focus on the reason I came. The knowledge inside me. They must know. Whoever waits beyond this forest, whoever must hear it, I cannot fail them. That thought steadies me for a moment. But only for a moment.

The eyes remain below. Or maybe I only imagine them now. Perhaps they left hours ago. Perhaps they were never there. The not-knowing gnaws deeper, and deeper, and deeper.

My body wins. My grip loosens. My head sags against the trunk. The last thought that passes through me is simple — if I wake, let it still be me.

And then I drift, weightless, the bark no longer against my skin. For a moment I think I am flying, but the rush of air feels too heavy.

Somewhere below, close as breath, a voice whispers my name.