The air in her grandmother's house was still. Dust motes drifted in the late morning light, caught in the beams that slipped between the bamboo slats. Emma sat on the floor surrounded by clothes folded into neat piles, the scent of camphor and woodsmoke clinging to every fabric. She pressed a blouse to her face, breathing it in, but the ache in her chest only deepened.
She had come to pack her grandmother's things, to close the chapter, yet being here cracked something open instead. Memories pressed against her, insistent. Not the ordinary kind — not of meals eaten on the porch, or the sound of her grandmother's voice at prayer.
No, what rose in her mind was the memory she had spent years trying to bury.
She had been fourteen.
The night had begun with laughter. Fireflies danced at the edge of the clearing, flickering like tiny lanterns. Emma chased them, barefoot in the grass, her hair loose around her shoulders. Her cousins had dared her to follow one deeper into the trees, and she had taken the dare without thinking, eager to prove she wasn't afraid.
At first, she thought she would only go a little way in. But the firefly kept glowing just out of reach, leading her farther, until the clearing was lost behind her. When she finally stopped, the forest pressed in on all sides.
Her heart thudded. She turned to retrace her steps, but the trail had vanished. Every tree looked the same. The night sounds grew louder — crickets buzzing, branches groaning — until even the snap of a twig sent her spinning.
She called for help. Once. Twice. Again, until her voice cracked. But no one answered.
Tears welled, hot and helpless. She sat at the base of a tree, drawing her knees to her chest. The air was thick with damp earth and shadows. She tried to be brave, but she was only a child lost in a forest too big for her.
And then the branches rustled.
Emma froze. Her breath caught as a figure stepped between the trees. At first she thought it was a farmer, or a hunter — but no. The firelight caught him, and her eyes widened.
He was tall, impossibly tall, his upper body that of a young man — lean and broad-shouldered — but from the waist down, the body of a horse, strong and steady. His hair tumbled over his brow, dark as the night, and his eyes glowed faintly, like embers in the dark.
A tikbalang.
Her grandmother's voice rang in her head: They'll lead you astray, anak. Don't follow them into the trees.
Emma's throat tightened. She should have run. She should have screamed. Instead, she stayed rooted, wide-eyed, as the creature crouched low, bringing his face level with hers.
"You're lost," he said gently. His voice was soft, almost teasing. "But you don't have to be afraid."
Her lips trembled. "You're… you're not real."
His mouth curved into a smile. "Does this feel unreal?" He tapped the earth with his hoof, the sound sharp against the silence.
Emma hugged her knees tighter, torn between fear and wonder.
He reached into a pouch slung across his chest and pulled out a folded cloth. Carefully, he draped it over her shoulders. The fabric smelled faintly of smoke and herbs. "You'll be cold tonight," he murmured.
She blinked at him. "Why are you helping me?"
For a moment, his eyes grew distant, almost sad. "Because no one should be alone when they're lost."
That night, he kept a small fire burning. Emma huddled close to it, watching him move easily among the shadows, gathering dry wood, checking the dark as though nothing in it could threaten him.
When she asked his name, he only chuckled. "You wouldn't believe it if I told you."
"Try me," she insisted.
"Adrian," he said at last, almost shyly, as though he had not spoken it aloud in years.
She repeated it under her breath, testing the weight of it. "Adrian."
The sound made him smile.
By the second night, Emma no longer trembled. She listened as Adrian pointed out constellations, tracing the patterns with his long fingers. He told her which plants soothed fever, which healed wounds, which made a person sick if they weren't careful.
"You know so much," she whispered.
"It's my home," he replied. "The forest teaches you everything, if you listen."
Emma studied his profile in the firelight. He was not frightening. Not to her. "Will I ever see you again?"
His expression softened, almost wistful. "That depends. Most people forget."
On the third morning, torches pierced the trees. Voices called her name — her uncle, her cousins, the searchers who had been combing the forest for days.
Emma scrambled to her feet, joy and relief flooding her. But when she turned, Adrian was already retreating into the shadows.
"Wait!" she cried.
He paused, lifted a hand in farewell, and was gone.
Her uncle swept her up, scolding and embracing her all at once. "You're safe now. You're safe."
Emma tried to explain. She told them about the tikbalang who had found her, who had kept her warm and safe and fed. She spoke of Adrian, the fire, the stories.
They laughed.
"You were scared. You imagined it," her mother said.
"She was delirious," her father added. "The forest plays tricks on you."
Her cousins teased her mercilessly. "Emma and her tikbalang prince!"
Even her grandmother, who once whispered stories of spirits, hushed her gently. "Don't say such things aloud, anak. People will think you've lost your mind."
So Emma stopped.
But the memory never left.
For years she carried it silently, tucked away in the corners of her mind. At first she clung to it, replaying every detail of Adrian's voice, his smile, the warmth of his hand as he steadied her. But as time passed, the edges blurred. Studies consumed her, and then medical school, long hours beneath fluorescent lights. Science left no room for tikbalangs. Patients needed answers she could measure, medicines she could explain.
She told herself she had imagined it. She buried it deep.
Until now.
Now, back in the house that still smelled of her grandmother, with the forest standing watch outside, the memory rose again. Not just the fear, not just the ridicule, but the wonder.
Emma closed her eyes, letting herself feel it. The firelight. The stories. The boy with ember eyes who called himself Adrian.
When she opened them, her gaze fell on the brass compass lying on the table — the one Adrian, grown and human, had pressed into her palm that morning. Its needle trembled faintly, pointing nowhere she could name.
Her breath caught.
Maybe, just maybe, she hadn't dreamed it after all.