Woodheart and the Moss Mice The Return of the Silent One

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Mist hung low among the roots, curling in slow ribbons that defied the wind. Woodheart moved quietly, his broad, bark-covered shoulders brushing fern fronds that trembled but made no sound. That was the first sign. Ferns always whispered. He paused and listened. The moss mice crouched on his shoulder, their fur like damp moss, their eyes glittering like dewdrops. They twitched their whiskers restlessly. No birdsong. Not a creak of a branch. Even the stream behind them had fallen silent. "It's him," Woodheart said finally, his voice deep as a hollow oak. "The Silent One." Long ago, before the moss mice had found him, before the heartwood in his chest had fully hardened, there had been a creature that roamed the forest, stealing sounds. Not from hunger, but from a kindred need to possess the silence completely. Wherever he went, words caught in his throat, leaves fell with a sigh, and rivers forgot to flow. Once they had imprisoned him, bound him in a hollow stone with the echoes he had stolen. But some prisons weaken, even those made of stone. Woodheart saw it now in the mist—gliding up the slope, like mushrooms standing in perfect stillness, their caps not even trembling when a beetle flew by. Silence so perfect it was heavy. A moss mouse, the smallest, tapped Woodheart's ear. "What will he take with him this time?" the little one seemed to ask. Woodheart's hand, broad and knotted like a root, gripped it tightly. "When he fully awakens, he will take the heartbeat of the forest with him. We will never hear him again." They moved toward the old stone cave, where tangled roots had once been their allies in keeping the Silent One imprisoned. The roots were now cracked, dry, and brittle, as if something had sucked their lives backward. From the cave came a cold breath—soundless, but with the taste of forgotten words. In the silence, Woodheart's own heart sounded too loud. Thump. Thump. The moss mice pressed against his neck, their tiny paws in time with his pulse. And then—a movement in the mist. Not a breeze, but the absence of anything heavier than air. A shape took shape, only partially there: the outline of a tall, robed figure, woven from pale gray. Its face was a mask of unmarked wood, without mouth, without eyes, and yet somehow it looked that way. When it turned, the air bent inward, swallowing the faint creak of Woodheart's joints. "You should have stayed asleep," Woodheart murmured, but the words felt devoured as they were spoken. The Silent One bowed his head, and a faint ringing began in Woodheart's ears—the sound of all the lost sounds at once, like a shattering memory. The moss mice scurried to his other shoulder, tails bristling. "We'll find the Echo Stone,"