a boy lost his way home

The woods hummed with an unsettling silence. The last rays of sun bled through the canopy, painting the forest floor in long, shivering streaks of orange. Ten-year-old Finn, his heart pounding a frantic tattoo against his ribs, watched the light fade. He’d been chasing a curious butterfly, wings the color of sunset, deeper and deeper into the woods, forgetting the warnings his grandmother had given him about straying from the path. Now, the path was gone, swallowed by the encroaching darkness.

Panic clawed at Finn’s throat. He’d been lost before, but never like this. The familiar, comforting scent of pine needles had given way to an unfamiliar, damp aroma, and the rustling of leaves sounded like whispers in the deepening gloom. He remembered his grandmother’s words, “The woods have their own secrets, Finn, and they don’t like to share them with those who trespass.”

He tried to retrace his steps, but every path looked the same. The trees, tall and gnarled, seemed to stretch their branches out like grasping hands, threatening to snatch him into the darkness. He stumbled over a twisted root, scraping his knee. Tears welled up in his eyes, blurring the already dim light.

Suddenly, a glint of light caught his eye. It was a small, silver locket nestled amongst the leaves. He picked it up, the metal cold against his palm. Inside, a tiny photograph revealed a woman with kind eyes and a gentle smile, holding a small, giggling boy. The boy looked startlingly familiar. Finn felt a strange tug at his heart.

He kept the locket close, its weight a small comfort in the growing darkness. He wandered, hoping against hope he’d find his way back. He stumbled upon a clearing, bathed in an eerie moonlight. There, in the center, stood a moss-covered cabin, its windows like vacant eyes staring back at him.

Hesitantly, he approached the cabin. As he drew closer, he heard a faint, rhythmic thumping coming from inside. He knocked timidly. The door creaked open, revealing a dimly lit interior. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows on the walls. An old woman sat by the fire, her face etched with wrinkles, her eyes holding an unsettling depth.

“Lost, are you, little one?” she croaked, her voice raspy as dry leaves.

Finn nodded, his voice choked with fear. “I was chasing a butterfly,” he whispered, clutching the locket.

The woman smiled, a smile that reached her eyes. “The woods have a way of drawing you in,” she said, her voice soft. “But they also have a way of guiding you home.” She pointed towards a corner, “You’ll find a path there. It will lead you back.”

Finn, still unsure of what to make of the encounter, followed her instructions. He found a narrow, barely-there path, barely visible in the moonlight. He walked, heart pounding, each step a whispered prayer. As he walked, he noticed the moonlight illuminating the locket more clearly, revealing an inscription on the back: “To my darling Thomas, may you always find your way back.”

He stopped, his breath catching in his throat. Thomas. The boy in the photo. The boy in the locket. It was him. He was Thomas.

He didn’t know how, but he knew he had to find this woman. He had to know more. But for now, he had to get home. He followed the path, his mind racing. The mystery of his own identity, of the woman, of the locket, and of his own disappearance, was just beginning. He had a feeling that the woods had just started to whisper their secrets.