The sun had slipped westward by the time Adrian left the village. He waved off another request for help — a roof beam here, a stray goat there — promising he'd be back tomorrow. His smile never faltered, but as he walked the familiar dirt path toward the trees, the weight of the day pressed heavier against his chest.
By the time he reached the edge of the forest, the light had softened into gold. Shadows lengthened, and the air cooled with the whisper of leaves. Here, the chatter of neighbors fell away, replaced by the layered music of insects and the low murmur of the wind.
The small hut stood waiting for him — a weathered wooden structure tucked among the trees. To the villagers, it was simply Adrian's home, the place where his grandmother had raised him after his parents died. They often said it was her kindness that lived on in him, the boy who grew up in the forest and became a good man despite his losses.
The old woman was long gone now, but the hut remained, carrying the scent of smoke and earth, the quiet memory of her hands.
Adrian pushed the door open and stepped inside. To the village, this was only the dwelling of an orphan who had risen above his circumstances. But in truth, it was also his threshold — the place where Adrian shed the borrowed skin of man and became once more what he truly was.
Silence greeted him.
He removed his basket and set it on the table, laying out the day's collection of herbs and specimens. But his eyes kept flicking toward the window, where the forest pressed closer, insistent.
He could feel it in his bones: the call to shed the skin he wore.
Adrian unbuttoned his shirt, let it fall, and crossed to the hearth. He knelt before it, drawing three long strands of dark hair from the small bundle tied with cord — coarse hairs from his mane, cut long ago but always kept. He held them in his palm, whispering words his grandmother had taught him, the only inheritance she left him:
"To hide, to walk unseen, wear the skin of man.
To reveal, to run free, return to what you are."
He placed the hairs into the flame. They curled, smoked, and vanished with the faint scent of burned earth.
Adrian closed his eyes.
At once, the shift began.
It was never painless. His spine lengthened, his muscles tightened, bones creaking as they stretched into their true proportions. His legs bent, reshaped, solidifying into the powerful limbs of a horse. His hooves struck the floor with a sharp echo. His torso broadened, arms thickening, chest rising with the force of breath that came deeper, fuller. His hair spilled longer, darker, until it brushed his shoulders like a mane.
When he opened his eyes, the room seemed smaller, the roof lower. He drew himself upright, no longer human — the illusion gone, the truth undeniable.
The centaur form breathed easier, though it carried its own weight. His skin glowed faintly where the last rays of sun caught him, the light sliding over muscle and fur. He flexed his hands — still human, but broader now, rougher.
Adrian exhaled, the sound a low rumble.
This was who he was.
Not the helpful neighbor. Not the botanist in the station. Not the man who smiled politely at Emma and offered her a compass she did not understand.
Here, alone, he could stop pretending.
He crossed to the window, hooves striking softly on the wooden floor, and looked out at the forest. It stirred for him, the trees bowing slightly in the evening breeze. The birds grew quiet, as though recognizing their guardian.
Adrian rested his forehead against the wooden frame, closing his eyes.
She had not remembered.
The words burned sharper now that he no longer carried the human mask. In this form, his emotions ran deeper, closer to the surface. The pain of her forgetting, the longing of her presence, the sharp ache of years between them — all of it surged through him.
"Emma," he murmured, her name a whisper carried into the trees.
The forest listened.