The morning sun had climbed higher by the time Adrian left the last house on his rounds. His shirt clung to his back, damp with the kind of heat that rose quickly in May, but his stride was steady as he adjusted the strap of his pack. Inside, the woven basket carried its usual clutter: jars, field notes, a magnifying lens, and the small canvas pouches he used for storing plant samples.
The village had fallen into rhythm behind him. Farmers bent low among the stalks of rice, their voices carrying over the paddies in easy conversation. Dogs lazed in the dust at the edge of the path, lifting their heads only when he passed. A cluster of children called his name, chasing after him for a few steps before peeling away in laughter.
Adrian's mouth curved in the faintest smile. He had walked this road more times than he could count, and every time it carried him back to the same place: the small research station tucked at the edge of the forest.
It was a humble building, whitewashed but already softened by the earth reclaiming it. Vines curled over its roof, moss crept along the foundations, and broad banana leaves hung low enough to brush against its walls. Most of the town saw it as a forgotten government project, little more than an office where a few researchers kept to themselves. But to Adrian, it was both sanctuary and burden. Here, he could slip into the role that made sense to outsiders: scientist, botanist, the man who cataloged plants and soil and insects.
The world called it research. Adrian called it breathing.
He set his pack on the narrow desk and began to unpack with the same precision he always did. Notebook first, pen tucked into its spine. Jars lined up neatly, each waiting for the samples he had promised himself he would collect before the rains began. The room smelled of earth and alcohol, the sharp tang of dried herbs mixing with the faint mildew that always lingered no matter how often he scrubbed.
He opened the windows wide. The forest answered immediately, pouring in with its sounds—the trill of birds, the hum of insects, the low creak of bamboo in the wind.
Adrian stood for a moment, breathing it all in.
And then, as always, his mind returned to her.
Emma.
He had known her instantly, though she stood older now, her frame taller, her voice steadier. But her eyes—he would have known them anywhere. He had once sat with that girl in the shadows of the forest while she clung to him in fear, whispering questions she was too young to understand. He had watched her fall asleep against his shoulder, trusting him completely though he had been nothing more than a stranger with the body of a half-man, half-beast.
He remembered her gratitude when the searchers had found her. He remembered her last glance before they pulled her away. And he remembered the hope, foolish and unshakable, that someday she would remember him.
This morning, she hadn't.
The thought twisted in his chest. He dropped into the chair at his desk and forced himself to open his notebook, to stare down the empty lines as though the work would steady him.
Orchidaceae: early bloom, abnormal for this season.
Soil samples near the northern ridge—test for acidity.
Insect population doubling near the creek. Possible cause: stagnant pools.
The words formed neatly enough, but they felt hollow. He pressed the pen harder than necessary, ink blotting where his hand lingered too long.
Adrian set the pen down and dragged a hand across his face. He had been a fool to think time would not touch her memory. Humans forgot. They forgot even the things that shaped them. But for him… every moment was carved deep.
He stood abruptly, needing air.
Outside the station, the forest loomed, rich and green. He stepped into it without hesitation, feet finding the path he knew as well as his own breath. Ferns brushed against his legs, the soil damp beneath his boots. A low canopy of leaves filtered the sun into a thousand shades of gold and green.
Here, he could let his guard down. Here, the human mask could slip, even just a little.
Adrian crouched beside a patch of wild ginger, fingers brushing the leaves with reverence. He clipped a sample, sliding it into a pouch, but his mind was far away. He thought of Emma's puzzled expression, the way she tilted her head as though trying to place him. He thought of her voice when she asked if they had met before—light, casual, not knowing that her question cut him open.
A rustle in the branches above drew his eyes. A monkey peered down, dark eyes glinting, before scampering away. Adrian almost smiled. Animals never feared him. Perhaps they recognized the truth more easily than humans did.
He straightened, continuing deeper into the forest. His basket grew heavier with each sample: bark, leaves, a delicate flower he knew would wilt by evening. Still, he kept walking. The act of gathering steadied him, each motion a small ritual that tied him back to the earth.
And yet, beneath it all, Emma lingered.
By the time the sun neared its zenith, Adrian returned to the station. His shirt clung damp with sweat, but he barely noticed. He set the basket on the desk and began cataloging: writing Latin names, noting soil conditions, sketching diagrams with quick, precise strokes.
Work grounded him. Always had. But today, even as he recorded the sharp serration of a leaf, his thoughts drifted.
What had she seen when she looked at him? A stranger. Nothing more.
He clenched his jaw.
Perhaps he should not have given her the compass. It had been an impulse, something pulled from the pocket where he had carried it for years. The brass was worn, the needle stubborn, but to him it had always been more than a trinket. It was a promise, a tether. A way of saying you are not alone.
Would she even keep it? Or would she toss it into a drawer, forget it as she had forgotten him?
Adrian closed the notebook with a sharp snap.
The forest beyond the window stirred, branches whispering in a language only he could truly hear. For a moment, he let himself imagine shifting—trading his human skin for the form that was truer, older. The muscles of a horse, the strength of hooves, the wild freedom of running unbound through the trees. It called to him, as it always did when he felt too much.
But he stayed still. The world outside would not understand. Emma would not understand.
Not yet.
The day wore on. Colleagues arrived at the station, greeting him warmly, unaware of the storm beneath his calm. Together they examined soil trays, debated the cause of a sudden mold outbreak, discussed reports of farmers losing young banana plants to an unfamiliar pest. Adrian contributed where he could, his knowledge of local flora unmatched. He smiled, nodded, offered theories.
But every so often, when conversation lulled, his thoughts slipped back to her.
Emma.
The name itself felt dangerous on his tongue. He had not spoken it aloud in years, and now it echoed in his chest like something he dared not claim.
By evening, as the others packed their things and drifted back toward town, Adrian lingered in the empty station. He set his pen down, staring at the stack of notes that should have satisfied him. Instead, they felt meaningless.
He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. The compass was gone from his pocket, sitting now in her hands. The thought both steadied and unsettled him. She might never understand its weight, not yet. But it was something. A thread.
Outside, the forest darkened, cicadas beginning their nightly chorus. Adrian listened, letting the sound fill him. In the distance, the lights of the village glowed faintly, warm against the encroaching night. Somewhere among them, Emma moved through the rooms of her grandmother's house, unaware of how tightly her presence had already gripped him again.
Adrian exhaled slowly, his hand curling into a fist on the desk.
"She doesn't remember," he whispered to the empty room.
But he did. And he always would.