Echo of Moths

two | wistful

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two
wistful | desire tinged with melancholy 
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THE WOODS ARE LIVELY as death. Steely clouds transform into thunderheads and walls of inky menace, but the wind comes to a halt. Upturned leaves refuse to dance in the frozen air. Even the wildlife holds their breath in anticipation. The scent of the oncoming storm dances in my senses.

Locke's thumb brushes the back of my hand, still gently within his grasp. "We're almost there. Not much farther now."

I've lost count of how many times he's said the same thing—any time I shiver from the cold or snap my neck toward the slightest flickering shadow between the trees. Empathy must flow seamlessly through his blood. He picks up on my cues before I even recognize the tension in my own body. It is a lost art in my existence, something not practiced, but in another person's nature.

Until he came along, I questioned if it truly existed at all.

This time, however, his words are not in response to subtle cues in body language or used for comfort in the damp woods. They are spoken true, I realized.

A clearing spans beyond the treeline not far ahead. Soft, buttery light radiates from bulbs wrapped by cord around a side porch. The wooden-sided home stands three stories, with a smoking chimney alerting the world to its presence. It is old yet pristine—a mixture of long-forgotten beauty and nostalgia that fills my chest with light. This is not just a place to sleep or eat while merely surviving the woods' animosity. It is a sanctuary for weary, beaten souls.

"Race ya!" Teagan's gleeful tone rings out from beside me. The small child giggles profusely as he runs ahead, weaving through the trees and jumping over roots in his path.

Locke lets out a chuckle that reminds me of an autumn sunset, bright and richly whimsical as he calls after his son, "Faster, Teag! We're on your tail!" A second laugh when the auburn-haired boy squeals and pumps his legs faster. "I think he's excited to have company. If his energy gets too overwhelming, let me know, okay?"

I can't imagine it being anything other than pleasant. Innocent, playful energy is a relief.

The small child careens through the treeline and across the freshly-mowed grass, past a tall silhouette that wanders with slow, lumbering steps. An older man with hair more silver than stars comes to meet us halfway. Shadows shroud his face, allowing only his graying scruff to be visible in the cloaked afternoon.

As we push through the final set of trees, the man raises his arms in greeting—and only too late do I notice the shotgun in his grip.

"Be gone!"

The first shell shatters thin branches high in the pine to my right. My ears ring and plug as if they've filled with water.

Locke pulls me behind him with one swift tug. "What the hell, dad? It's us!"

A rattling cough sputters from the older man's lips. Wild eyes whip from the trees to the sky, a few shades darker than his son's and void of the same kindness. He lifts the rifle again. The tremor in his fingers takes hold, and his weapon clatters to the ground before he can fire another shot.

Locke's hand slips away as he takes off toward his father. The silver-haired man loses his balance, but Locke steadies him before the grass can become his bed.

"The wicked night..." mutters the older man. Blinking rapidly, he grips his son's sturdy arm. "A storm from hell will soon be upon us..."

Poised behind a thick-trunked tree at the clearing's edge, I try to steady the rapid thrum of my heart. The older man's eyes bear into me now, every bit the devil I first feared Locke would be. Bitterness marrs the lines around his twisted mouth. There is a bite to his tone, and an unnerving cadence in his speech. It is far from the softness that Locke carries every time his lips part.