Chapter 8 #2
I hesitate. The words feel absurd even before they leave my mouth, but if there’s one person who’s earned the right to hear my absurdity, it’s him.
“Have you ever… seen anything weird on your photography trips?” I ask. “Like, really weird. Not ‘I forgot bears can stand up’ weird. More like… unexplained weird.”
Silence.
Not long, but long enough for my heart to thud once, sharply.
“Milo?” I prompt.
His voice is too careful when he answers. “What kind of weird?”
Oh. Oh no. I did not expect that.
“I don’t know,” I say, trying to keep my tone light. “Footprints. Shapes. Things that weren’t animals you recognized. Sounds you couldn’t explain.”
Another silence. Then he exhales. “Elias, are you asking me if I’ve seen something out there… like a monster or something?”
Hearing him say it out loud makes heat crawl up my neck.
“No,” I say quickly. “Not monsters. Just… I don’t know. Maybe my brain is doing leftover concussion fireworks. I just—” I begin, then stop. “Forget it. You should be taking the much-needed break you planned for, not listening to me. I didn’t mean to dump weirdness on you.”
He hesitates again with a low hum.
For a moment, I think he’s about to confess whatever’s been weighing on him. Instead, he clears his throat and forces a laugh. “It’s fine. Honestly. You’re likely just overthinking. Head injuries do that. And it’s so easy to see shadows when you’re alone. You should sleep.”
I swallow disappointment, or maybe relief. I’m not sure which. “Yeah. You’re probably right.”
“Call me again before the next concussion,” he says.
“I make no promises.”
He groans. “Of course you don’t.”
When we hang up, the station feels strangely quiet, as though the walls were leaning in, listening.
Night settles slowly.
The sky turns blue, then gray, then ink.
The last light catches the tops of the trees like sugar crystals on dark bark.
I make a simple dinner—boiled rice, jerky, and the last of my dried mushrooms. Hardly gourmet, but it’s functional.
My headache is fading to a dull hum by the time I wash the dishes and tuck the rest of my gear into their storage bins.
I should go straight to bed. I should take my painkillers, turn off the lamp, crawl under my blanket, and convince my brain that tomorrow will be easier.
Instead, I find myself standing on the small porch, arms folded against the cool night breeze.
The forest is quieter than usual tonight, expectant in a way I can’t explain. Not tense. Not dangerous. Just… attentive.
And I speak.
“Okay,” I say softly into the dark. “This is ridiculous, and I know it’s ridiculous, but… if you’re there, whoever you are—whatever you are—I’m not going to freak out.”
My voice sounds strange in the stillness. It feels like tossing a pebble into a lake where the water refuses to ripple.
No response comes. Not a sound. Not a shift of branches. Not even an owl hoot.
I breathe out slowly.
“I’m not saying I believe in Bigfoot,” I continue. “I’m saying that if Bigfoot happened to be real, and if Bigfoot happened to be hanging around my research station for reasons unknown, then… I don’t know. I’d appreciate some explanation.”
A soft wind brushes through the clearing, but it doesn’t feel like wind. It feels like acknowledgment.
“And if you’re not Bigfoot,” I add, “and you’re…
something else of legend, or folklore, or whatever category I’m not allowed to admit exists, then…
thank you. For fixing the railing. And the solar mount.
And the camera I found mysteriously repaired yesterday.
And for not letting me die of concussion-induced stupidity. ”
Still nothing.
Still everything.
Warmth loosens the ache in my chest, like truth pressing against denial.
My gaze drifts to the tree line, to where deep shadows sit thick and unmoving.
“I keep thinking about that day,” I say, quieter now. “When I fell. I remember pieces. Arms. Warmth. A voice. A man. I’ve been telling myself that was a dream, but I don’t know anymore.”
My heart pounds, and the wind hushes.
“I keep thinking about you,” I add.
There’s no reply.
But there is a feeling. It’s soft and subtle, like someone very large is holding their breath.
“I don’t know what you really look like,” I continue, “but my brain seems to think you’re… well… big. And covered in hair or fur. And probably have eyes that glow in the dark.” My cheeks heat. “And if I’m being honest,” I whisper, “I don’t find that scary anymore.”
I can barely bring myself to say the next part.
“In fact… the idea of a hulking creature with russet-brown fur that gleams like redwood bark in sunlight, and warm amber eyes that glow faintly gold in the dark… I don’t know what that says about me.”
It says a lot. Too much.
I exhale shakily. “If you’re out there, I won’t run.”
Silence. A deep, encompassing silence that feels full instead of empty.
I nod to the night, feeling foolish, brave, and tired all at once. “Good night,” I murmur.
I go inside, close the door, turn off the lamp, then crawl into bed.
Sleep comes slowly, but when it does, I dream of tall shapes in the dark, gentle eyes gleaming gold, and a warmth that feels like being carried through the forest by an ancient, impossibly kind presence.
Something real.