the fire is kindling (8)

His eyes glint in the firelight, and for a moment, they seem too bright, too sharp.“I thought you were…” I trail off, unable to finish the sentence. Dead. Gone. A memory.

Eric steps closer, the firelight catching on his features. They’re familiar, yet wrong—like a painting smudged at the edges. “I’ve been waiting,” he says, his voice low and smooth. “The woods told me you’d come.”

“The woods?” My stomach twists. “They’ve been watching, you know. Always watching. They told me things, showed me things. It’s beautiful, really.” His grin stretches impossibly wide, and I take an involuntary step back. “What happened to you?” I ask, my voice trembling.