The Others

A Sight for Sore Eyes

Fern darted between the trees, her feet barely making a sound against the forest floor. The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, the evening sun filtering through the canopy, casting golden streaks across the mossy ground. This was her sanctuary, the one place where the weight of her family's concern couldn't reach her.

But something felt off tonight.

She slowed her pace, eyes narrowing as she caught a flicker of movement ahead. A figure—small, pale, and strangely poised—was weaving through the woods, moving with an awkward yet determined pace. A boy, far too well-dressed for this part of the world. His coat, crisp and tailored, clung to his slim frame, the wool pristine. Even his boots, though worn from the journey, looked as though they belonged on cobbled streets, not the muddy paths of this forest.

Fern stayed hidden behind the wide trunk of an oak tree, her heart picking up speed as she watched him stumble over a root. His blonde hair shimmered in the fading light, catching the sun's last rays like a pale beacon. He looked out of place, fragile even, like a lost creature in a world too wild for him. But there was a sharpness to him, a rigidness in his posture that said he was more than just lost—he was fighting something.

And then she noticed something else. The way he moved, the way his hands reached out just slightly before he took each step, as if he were feeling the space around him rather than seeing it. He didn't walk like someone who was simply clumsy or unsure—he walked like someone blind.

Her breath hitched. Could it be?

Fern stayed where she was, her curiosity mingling with unease. He was clearly not from here, not one of the village boys who might stumble across the woods out of boredom. His coat alone could feed her family for a month. What was he doing here, wandering so far from any path? And more importantly, why was he pretending he wasn't blind?

The boy stumbled again, his foot catching on a rock this time, and he nearly toppled over before he caught himself on a low-hanging branch. His jaw tightened in frustration, and he muttered something under his breath—too low for her to hear, but the tone was unmistakable. He was angry.

She could walk away. Leave him to his struggle. After all, what was he to her? But there was something about the way he carried himself, like he was fighting so hard to maintain control, to not let his weakness show. It was a familiar feeling. The world was unkind to those it viewed as weak.

She took a step forward, her heart pounding in her chest, her instincts telling her to keep her distance. But then his head turned, just slightly, as if he sensed her. His pale eyes, unfocused yet alert, scanned the shadows where she hid.

"I know you're there," he said suddenly, his voice sharp and commanding. "Come out."

Fern froze.

The boy's chin lifted, his tone carrying an authority that seemed at odds with his current state. "I said, come out. I'm not going to hurt you."

His arrogance sparked something in Fern. Who did he think he was, issuing orders like that? She had been hiding in the woods her whole life, mastering the art of staying unseen. But now, for some reason, she felt an urge to be noticed.

Slowly, she stepped out from behind the tree, keeping her distance. Her long, earth-toned dress swayed as she moved, catching on the occasional branch but never revealing too much of her. She made sure her steps were deliberate, light, so he wouldn't hear more than a faint rustle of leaves. When she stopped, the boy's head cocked in her direction, his pale eyes still scanning, still searching.

"You think you can hide from me?" he asked, his voice laced with impatience. "I can tell where you are."

Fern raised an eyebrow, though he couldn't see it. "Seems to me you're the one who's lost."