A raven caws in the distance, a sound that mocks me. Otherwise, there is silence. A pale, deathly silence that stretches for miles from each cardinal point of a magnetic compass. A compass I no longer possess, by the way. Lost some miles ago, through a pocket hole. I can stitch a wound, but not a pair of pants. I am—at last—able to admit I am lost, unsure of the direction home. The raven ate my breadcrumbs.
I sigh at the mysteries of life and ruminate upon my place in the world. I ate poison mushrooms five days ago and survived. The same cannot be said for my dining companions. I lament their loss and feel considerable guilt over the incident, since I'm the one who picked the mushrooms in the forest that morning. I am colorblind and that appears to have made all the difference.
Something in the wood rises. Slowly it rises, a dark shadow. And with it, an icy wind . . . though, oddly, the dried leaves do not rustle. The forest is silent. I am only passing through, a stranger to these parts. I have no business with you . . . no history. Why, then, do you seek me out? I can't help you. The bees are gone. As well the birds. You shall be next. Then I.