“The Wood has stirred,” he said, voice low and resonant.
“It does not rouse itself without cause.”
Alex swallowed. “What does it want?”
Hawk tilted his head, studying her with an unsettling gentleness.
“It seeks the truth you have carried too long in silence —
the truth that has shaped your steps more faithfully than hope.”
The treehouse hummed again, a sound like memory, like recognition, like something ancient clearing its throat.
Hawk continued, more softly now, the cadence shifting toward poetry:
“The roots remember what the mind forgets.
The branches keep vigil over what the heart refuses.
And the Wood… listens to the burdens you no longer name.”
Alex’s breath caught.
Not with fear — with recognition.
Hawk bowed his head, a gesture both formal and impossibly kind.
“You came searching for the hound,” he said.
“But it is you the Wood has summoned —
you, whose spirit has wandered longer than your feet.”
The air shifted once more — unmistakable, undeniable.
“Then begin,” Hawk murmured,
“for even hesitation is a kind of answer.”
Alex didn’t move.
The word settled over her like dust — light, but impossible to ignore.
Begin.
As if it were that simple.
Her pulse hadn’t yet come down from the moment she’d lost sight of Rosie.
Her body still held the echo of that old, familiar panic, the one that rose too fast, too sharp, as if every loss she’d ever lived were stacked behind it, waiting for its turn.
Rosie pressed against her leg again, warm and steady.
Alex let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said quietly.
Hawk inclined his head, the gesture solemn, almost priestly.
“Clarity comes in its appointed hour,” he said.
“Presence is all the Wood asks of you now.”
The Wood did not press.
The air did not shift again.
Nothing demanded anything of her.
For the first time in a long time, the silence around her wasn’t empty.
It was patient.
Alex stayed exactly where she was — wary, thinking, not ready to step forward, but no longer pretending she hadn’t heard the call.
