The forest was not the same after the letter.
Ilahash could feel it in his bones—the quiet shift in the air, the whisper in the leaves. It wasn't just that Hope had written back. It was the way the world responded to it, as though the trees themselves knew something had changed. As though her memory carried weight in the roots and breath in the breeze.
He had read her letter a dozen times. Five simple words: I still remember your voice.
It was enough to undo him.
It was also enough to lead him forward.
On the night the moon rose full and pale like a sleeping eye, he left the cottage and stepped barefoot into the woods. He didn't bring a lantern. The moon would be his guide, and whatever waited in the trees—he would face it.
Every tree knew her name.
Every step he took seemed to echo the last one she must have taken.
He wasn't even sure what he was looking for. But the forest guided him, not in a straight path, but in turns and spirals, past mossy stones and narrow creeks that glowed faintly silver under the moonlight. It felt like a dream, yet his senses were sharp—he could smell the dew, feel the bark under his palm, hear the pulse of his own heart.
Then came the trial.
A stone arch stood in the center of a clearing Ilahash didn't recognize. It hadn't been there before, or maybe it had, hidden behind a veil of magic or memory. The arch was etched with ivy and runes—old forest script he couldn't read, but somehow understood.
To follow her path, you must bear your truth.
The air shimmered, and from beneath the earth, figures emerged—shadows at first, but then more real than fog or fire. Ilahash recognized them. Versions of himself.
The boy who had met Hope beneath the hollow tree.
The one who had held her hand and said he wasn't afraid.
The one who had pushed her away.
The one who had cried her name the night she disappeared.
They stared at him with knowing eyes, saying nothing. Waiting.
A voice rose, not from one of them—but from within the arch.
"Show us the truth."
Ilahash didn't know what to say. What was the truth?
He looked at each version of himself, their faces full of hurt, love, and regret. And then he spoke—not to them, but through them.
"I was afraid," he said. "Not of her, not of the magic, but of how much I needed her. I thought if I pushed her away, the ache would hurt less when she left. But I was wrong."
The shadows blinked once, and one by one, began to dissolve.
"I wrote those letters because I couldn't say those words out loud," he whispered. "But she deserved them."
Only one figure remained—the version of him from the night he'd broken Hope's heart. Tears rolled down that figure's cheeks, mirroring his own.
"I would take it back," Ilahash said. "But I can't. So I'll move forward. For her."
The last shadow stepped into him—no pain, no fear, just a quiet warmth like acceptance. The arch lit with a gentle silver glow, and the runes pulsed.
Then walk on, and bear the trial of the heart.
Ilahash passed beneath the arch.
On the other side, the forest had transformed.
Everything was softer—every leaf, every sound wrapped in moonlight and magic. Tiny lights danced in the air—glowflies, the kind Hope used to chase when they were younger. One flew ahead of him, then another, and soon a whole trail of them shimmered forward, urging him to follow.
He did.
The path wound deeper into the forest than he'd ever gone before. He lost sense of time. The moon never moved. The stars never blinked. Only the rhythm of his footsteps marked the passing of moments.
Then he heard it.
A song.
Low and trembling, like it had been sung beneath the earth for centuries. It wasn't human, but it wasn't fully other, either. It wrapped around his chest and pulled at something inside him.
He followed the sound.
It led him to a circle of white stones, arranged like petals around a central pool. In the middle of the pool floated a blossom—glowing, golden, and alive. The song came from it.
Ilahash stepped closer. The moment his foot touched the water's edge, the singing ceased. The blossom opened.
Inside it, a memory.
Hope—sitting beside a fire, smiling, humming that same tune while writing in her journal.
Then the image changed.
She was crying. Alone. Holding one of his letters.
Then again.
She was running through the trees, her face streaked with light. She looked over her shoulder—not in fear, but in longing. As though she hoped someone would follow.
As though she hoped it would be him.
The pool faded. The blossom dimmed.
Ilahash stood still.
She hadn't been running from something. She had been reaching for something. For him.
He sank to his knees beside the water.
"I'll find you," he whispered, voice breaking. "Even if I have to cross the whole forest. Even if it takes me the rest of my life. I'll follow every trace you left."
The water shimmered, and in its surface, words formed like starlight:
"Then follow the next moon."
Ilahash rose. The lights returned, gathering around him.
He didn't know where the next moon would take him—but he was ready.
He turned, walking back through the woods, the song still echoing faintly in his chest. When he returned to the cottage, the world felt different. The walls hummed. The wind told stories. The forest had accepted him.
The moon had shown him his trial.
And he had chosen her.