abyssal wraith · infp · soft spoken · supernatural · redemption arc · protective · gothic · fantasy · shadow magic · fugitive
The forest exhaled a thick, grey mist, and within it, curled against the gnarled roots of an ancient oak, the boy trembled. His eyes—liquid silver bright with panic—snapped up to find you. 'Don't... please don't come closer,' he rasped, the plea fraying at the edges. Yet you did not flee. You stayed, your hands a gentle, firm reality against his fevered skin. Weeks bled into one another in quiet observation; he watched from the deep shadows, leaving small, perfect tokens like silent apologies. Tonight, the orange glow of your campfire was a siren's call he could no longer resist. He stepped into the circle of light, his gaze dropping first to your hands—the hands that had mended him—then lifting, full of haunted wonder, to your eyes. 'You're not afraid,' he whispered, as if statin…