The forest had a way of breathing when no one was listening.
At dawn, it exhaled mist—thin, silver threads curling between the trees. At night, it inhaled darkness, pulling shadows into its lungs until even the moon hesitated to shine. Deep within this forest, far from the road that led to the city and farther still from memory, stood a small wooden house leaning slightly to the east, as if it were tired of standing upright.
An old woman lived there with her husband.
No one from the city knew their names.
The villagers who once lived nearby had long since moved away, claiming the forest was "uneasy." They said sounds traveled where they shouldn't, that paths rearranged themselves, that sometimes you could walk for hours and end up exactly where you began. Only the old couple remained, as if the forest had decided to keep them.
Every Friday, without fail, the man rose before sunrise.
His name was Ishaan, though the city no longer remembered it. His beard was streaked with white, but his back was still strong, his hands calloused from years of chopping wood. He would eat a simple meal of boiled roots and dried berries, sharpen his axe, and load neatly stacked firewood onto a wooden cart.
And every Friday, his wife would hand him the bottle.
She was known only as Amma—a name that meant mother, though no one could say to whom. Her hair was long and gray, braided down her back like a rope . Her eyes were sharp, as if they had learned to see things other eyes refused to notice.
The bottle was small, sealed with black wax, and always filled with a liquid that looked different depending on the light. Sometimes it shimmered like oil on water. Sometimes it looked as clear as mountain rain. Once, Ishaan thought he saw something move inside it—but when he blinked, it was still.
She handed it to him with both hands.
"Promise me," she said, her voice dry but firm, "you will not drink it unless you are in danger."
Ishaan had heard these words every Friday for the past twelve years.
"I promise," he replied, as he always did.
"What kind of danger?" he once asked, long ago.
Amma had smiled then—not warmly,but knowingly.
"The kind that does not look like danger until it's too late."
He never asked again.
The path to the city was narrow and twisted, cutting through the forest like an old scar. Ishaan walked beside the cart, pushing it along, his breath steady, his mind quiet. The forest watched him go.
That morning felt different.
The birds were silent.
No insects hummed. No leaves rustled. Even his footsteps seemed to vanish the moment they touched the ground.
Halfway through the journey, he noticed something strange: the path looked… newer. The stones he used as markers were missing. In their place lay smooth soil, undisturbed, as though no one had walked there in years.
Ishaan stopped.
"This path hasn't changed in decades," he muttered.
A thought crept into his mind—slow, unwelcome.
Did I take the wrong turn?
He looked behind him.
The forest stood still, trees pressed tightly together, their trunks darker than before. The house was no longer visible.
He looked ahead.
The path stretched on—but it felt longer than it should have been.
For the first time in years, Ishaan's hand brushed against the bottle tucked safely inside his coat.
He pulled it out and examined it.
The liquid inside was cloudy now.
He swallowed.
He pushed the cart forward.
The city gates appeared hours later—too suddenly. One moment he was surrounded by trees, the next by stone walls, shouting vendors, and the smell of smoke and spice.
The city hadn't changed much.
People still argued over prices. Children still ran barefoot through the streets. Bells still rang at the temple near the market. Yet something felt… off.
People stared at him.
Not the curious glance a woodcutter usually earned—but long stares. Some looked afraid. Others looked confused.
One man dropped a coin when he saw Ishaan pass.
A woman whispered, "Is that him?" before pulling her child away.
Ishaan got annoyed but continued to his usual spot near the well. He sold his wood quickly—too quickly. Buyers didn't bargained. They paid whatever he asked, eager to be rid of him.
When he went to buy supplies, the shopkeeper froze the moment he approached.
"You… you shouldn't be here," the man stammered.
"I come every Friday," Ishaan said calmly. "You know that."
The shopkeeper's face drained of color.
"No," he whispered. "You used to."
"What do you mean?"
The shopkeeper glanced around nervously, then leaned closer.
"You disappeared twelve years ago," he said. "They said the forest took you. Your wife too."
Ishaan laughed—sharp, disbelieving.
"That's nonsense. I was here last week."
The shopkeeper shook his head violently.
"There hasn't been a woodcutter from the forest in twelve years."
The sounds of the city faded.
Ishaan's ears rang.
Slowly, he reached into his coat and touched the bottle.
The wax seal was warm now.
Danger does not always look like danger, Amma's voice echoed in his mind.
Before he could say another word, a bell rang—deep and heavy. The crowd froze.
Then, one by one, people turned toward him.
Their eyes were wrong.
Too dark. Too hollow.
Someone whispered, "He came back."
Hands reached for him.
The bottle began to vibrate.But he ran away drinking the liquid.
Only the taste—bitter, metallic, ancient.
He woke up in the forest.
The cart was beside him. The path looked normal again. Birds sang. Sunlight filtered gently through the leaves.
Relief washed over him.
He hurried home.
The house stood as it always had.
Smoke curled from the chimney.
"Amma!" he called.
She was sitting inside
She looked up—and smiled.
"You drank it," she said softly.
Ishaan stared at her.
"Yes," he said. "The city… they said we were gone. That we disappeared twelve years ago."
Amma nodded.
"Because you did."
Silence stretched between them.
"What do you mean?" Ishaan asked.
She placed the bottle on the table.
It was full again.
Perfectly sealed.
"You go to the city every Friday," she said, "but you never return from the same Friday."
Ishaan's breath caught.
"Then who comes back?"
Amma met his eyes.
And somewhere far away, the city bells rang again—this time, for the dead.