.

they spoke of him in murmurs ---
not like a beast, but like an aftertaste.

decathect.
the name wasn’t said often, but when it was, it came out torrid. like current slipping through concave timbers.

he didn’t move so much as glide, limbs stitched with silence, breathless. his coat shimmered pale like old ashes; not white, but bleary, like something the sun forgot. and his eyes ---

gods.
his eyes didn’t look at you.

they reflected you.

not with recognition. not even judgment. just… as you were, stripped bare of lies, postures, the names you fed yourself to rest. his gaze was a mirror with no forgiveness.

one canine, shaken and lost in a blizzard-night, swore they saw him emerge through the fog.

“he was already watching me,” they had muttered later, voice brittle. “his eyes… they reflected me in a terrible way,”

they say he doesn’t make a sound, not even when he moves. but some hear a chime. faint. fleeting. like, draft passing through cleft silver. never twice from the same direction.

and when you blink, he’s gone.

no trace.
no scent.
no claim.

as if he doesn’t walk the forest at all,
but haunts it.

.