By midmorning, the makeshift camp hummed with uneasy warmth — strangers circling the two foundlings like moths unsure whether the flame would scorch them or save them.
Rafi sat cross-legged near the barrel fire, steam curling from a mug cupped in both hands. His knuckles were raw; dirt clung under each nail, reminders of the hush's soil-breath that once filled him. The braid girl rested against a bundle of blankets beside him. Her eyes fluttered open and closed, each blink fighting the pull of sleep she hadn't trusted in days.
Their rescuers — if that was the word — argued just out of earshot. Town's a day's walk. They're not safe here. Someone should call the shelters. Rafi heard enough to know they were already being packaged up, like lost pets or half-scrubbed sins someone else would have to clean.
One woman crouched to his level. Her hair was streaked with grey and her jacket smelled faintly of lavender soap. She spoke softly, trying to coo secrets out of him: What's your name, sweetheart? Who hurt you? How long were you alone out there?
He stared through her. Her words dissolved before they could root. Inside him, the hush's shadow wriggled, teasing: Tell them and they'll never let you go. Show them and they'll pluck you clean like a crow on roadkill.
But under the hush's rot, something else quivered awake — the memory of the braid girl's pulse under his thumb, steady as a promise. He slid his mug toward her sleeping hands and rose.
Snow squeaked under his steps as he padded away from the tent circle. No one stopped him. They thought he was tame now. They didn't know his feet still remembered the hush's paths, the hidden ways where roots burrowed deep enough to tangle even the bravest hunter's throat.
Behind him, the braid girl stirred, her breath puffing soft clouds. She felt him moving. Even half-dreaming, she knew not to let him vanish alone.
Rafi crouched at the tree line, pressing his palm to the damp bark. The forest trembled under his skin — a heartbeat softer than the hush, but old, waiting. They'll want to bury us in clean beds and warm meals, he thought. They don't know we're still seeds, sprouting wrong things under their neat floors.
The braid girl's shadow fell beside him. She didn't ask what he saw in the trees. She knew. She'd seen it too, once — the secret mouth of the hush, swallowing and spitting them back into the world more feral than before.
They didn't run. Not yet. But roots twined under their boots, patient and sure. No cage built by soft hands and kind soup would ever hold them for long.
Back at the fire, the strangers thought they'd saved two children. But the forest knew better: what came out of the hush never stayed saved. It only learned to bloom where no one would think to weed.