The Others

The Promise

The evening settled into twilight, casting long shadows across the path as Fern led Oliver away from the woods. The village's faint flicker lay ahead, distant but close enough to feel like safety. Their walk was quiet at first, the only sounds being the crunch of leaves beneath their feet and the occasional call of birds nesting for the night. But the silence was taut with words waiting to be said, and Fern could sense the weight of them in Oliver's posture.

Finally, it was Oliver who broke the quiet, his voice cutting through the tension like a sharp breeze. "I don't know if you've noticed," he began, his tone strangely light but carrying something more beneath it, "but I'm... well, I don't exactly see the world the same way others do."

Fern glanced sideways at him. It wasn't a surprise now, not after watching him move and observing the subtle ways he navigated the path, but the way he mentioned it—so controlled, as if he were offering her a piece of himself that he'd rather keep hidden—made her heart tighten.

"I figured," she said softly, her voice careful not to betray too much. She didn't want pity to even touch her words. "But it's not that important."

Oliver's brow furrowed, clearly not expecting her easy acceptance. He'd probably braced himself for the awkward silence or uncomfortable reassurances. "It's not?" he asked, a flicker of disbelief in his voice.

"Everyone's got something, right?" Fern shrugged, though she knew he couldn't see it. "None of us are flawless."

A pause stretched between them, the tension beginning to ebb away as Oliver processed her words. He chuckled softly, the sound almost bitter. "I'm not sure most people see it that way."

"Well," Fern said, offering a small smile he couldn't see but could perhaps hear in her voice, "maybe most people are wrong."

They continued walking, and this time the silence felt less heavy, less fraught with hidden things. Fern's steps were more relaxed, and Oliver's seemed to find their rhythm alongside hers. They passed by a narrow stream that gurgled softly beside the path, its waters sparkling faintly in the last traces of daylight.

"I've never met anyone quite like you," Oliver admitted after a while. There was a soft honesty in his words now, something unguarded that hadn't been there before. "Most people either avoid me or act like I'm a fragile thing to be handled with care."

Fern laughed, a light sound that carried on the cool evening air. "You don't seem fragile to me," she said, glancing up at the sky, now deepening into a rich violet. "You seem more... stubborn. Like you're trying to prove something."

Oliver's jaw tightened slightly, though not with anger. "Maybe I am."

Fern nodded knowingly, keeping her gaze ahead. She understood what it was like to carry invisible burdens—things you didn't want the world to see. But she also understood what it was like to yearn for something beyond what people saw in you.

They passed by a small lake, the water's surface smooth and still, reflecting the first stars winking into the sky. The air here was fresher, crisp with the scent of pine and damp earth. Oliver slowed his steps, breathing in deeply.

"This place," he murmured, "the air is... different."

"It's quieter here," Fern said, as though explaining a secret she'd known all her life. "Not as many people come this way."

Oliver turned his head toward her, as if he could see her through the veil of his blindness. "It's nice," he admitted, his voice softer now. "Maybe I'll come back."

Fern's heart gave a small leap, though she wasn't sure why. She felt that sudden, unspoken connection between them—two people who lived just outside the edges of the world most others knew.

As they reached the edge of the village, Fern slowed, realizing they were close to parting ways. The reality of it settled in her chest—a strange reluctance to let this moment slip away.

"Do you think I'll see you again?" Oliver asked, his tone casual, but there was a hopefulness hidden beneath it.

For a second, Fern hesitated. She wasn't used to people asking to see her again. She wasn't used to being seen at all.

"Maybe," she said, and then added, "You can find me here if you do."

Oliver smiled faintly, tilting his face toward her. "What should I call you, then?"

For a brief second, Fern considered keeping her name a secret. But something about Oliver's presence—the quiet understanding that flowed between them—made her want to give him something real.

"Fern," she said softly. "My name is Fern."

Oliver repeated the name quietly, as if savoring the sound. "Fern," he echoed, his smile growing. "I'll remember."

They stood there for a moment longer, the village lights flickering just ahead, casting warm, golden glows against the darkening sky. The soft sounds of evening settled around them, the world quiet but alive.

"I'll come back," Oliver said, his voice full of certainty now. "To where the air's freshest. By the lake."

Fern nodded, though she knew he couldn't see it. "I'll be here."

With a final, lingering glance, they parted ways, Oliver heading into the village, his steps more assured now that he was on familiar ground. Fern watched him go, her heart unexpectedly light.

But as soon as his figure disappeared into the shadowy streets, Fern turned, her breath quickening as she hurried back through the forest, the darkness closing in around her like an old friend. She had done it again—ventured out, spoken to someone, and yet remained unseen for what she truly was. The thrill of secrecy buzzed beneath her skin as she darted between the trees, her feet barely touching the ground.

Finally, she reached her home, a small, tucked-away cottage just beyond the village's reach. She slowed, glancing around to make sure no one had followed her, and then, with one final burst of energy, she bolted inside.

The house was quiet, dimly lit by the glow of a single candle. Fern's breath came fast, but she allowed herself a small smile. She had gotten away with it. No one knew.

As she closed the door behind her, her heart still racing with the excitement of the evening, the house fell back into stillness. All seemed calm. But as the candle flickered faintly, casting shadows on the walls, a figure stood quietly at the window above.

Unseen by Fern, a pair of eyes watched her, silent and unmoving, catching every detail of her hasty return.