Archive of Our Own

Tommy can see it—just beyond the treeline, lingering at the edge of his vision. Flashes of silver cut between the trunks, claws glinting where the light dares to touch them. Branches snap beneath its weight, deep and deliberate, before the sound cuts off into a suffocating silence. The wildlife has vanished; even the birds have gone mute. The wind holds its breath. The grass does not dare to move.

There’s something in the forest.

Tommy’s father pays it no mind, brushing him off with a gruff wave and a sharp, “Get back to the gardens, boy. The plants won’t tend themselves.” His mother only sighs, tuts about his wild imagination, and tells him he ought to spend more time with that sweet Tubbo boy, who never speaks of monsters or shadows in the trees.

But Tommy knows it’s there.

He knows, when the crows begin to swarm their rooftop—black wings blotting out the morning sun. He knows, when strange trinkets appear on his desk, gleaming with forest dirt and whispers of something ancient. He knows, when his father curses and shouts at the birds until his face burns scarlet, and when his mother weeps beneath the sound of their cawing, begging the creatures to leave them be.

He knows.

They won’t leave. The birds circle and swarm, but never make a sound. Not a single caw cuts through the air, only the faintest whisper of wings. It unsettles his father to no end, though that doesn’t stop him from grabbing the broom and swinging it skyward, shouting for the wretched things to scatter.

For a heartbeat, as the flock parts, Tommy sees it—the pale gleam of bone beneath feathers, the hollow sockets where eyes should be.

He blinks, and it’s gone.

Just a crow again. Ordinary. Harmless.

But the image lingers, burned behind his eyelids, refusing to fade.

Sometimes, Tommy stands at the edge of the garden—muddy gloves half pulled off, trowel forgotten beside a half-dug patch of earth. His eyes fix on the line where sunlight fades into shadow, where the pines rise tall and endless, swallowing the clearing whole.

He can feel it. That quiet, crawling presence just beyond reach—an itch beneath his skin that never fades. Something waits out there, just too far for daylight to touch. But he swears it’s there. He knows it.

He breathes it.

There's something in the forest, even if no one else dares to believe him.

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There's a necklace settled on Tommy's pillow.

It's silver, gleaming faintly in the morning light, with a beautiful and surely expensive emerald jewel set perfectly in the heart of the pendant. The lines are carefully carved, with swirls and curves making up the delicate edges around the green jewel.

It's the most gorgeous thing he's ever seen in his life. It is also the most expensive thing Tommy has ever seen in his life.

He has no idea how the crows could’ve scavenged something like this—something so polished, so perfectly clean, so clearly cared for. It doesn’t belong in a house like his, where dust clings to every surface no matter how often he tries to wipe it away, where the air always tastes faintly of lint and old wood.

The chains clink softly as he lifts the necklace, careful not to let it slip. Up close, it’s even more breath taking than he imagined. The silver gleams under his touch, and when he turns it toward the light, the emerald catches it, shattering sunlight into shards of green across his fingertips.

A sharp caw startles Tommy from his thoughts, his head snapping toward the window. Perched neatly on the sill sits a crow, its beady eyes locked onto him with unsettling focus. For a long moment, neither of them move. Then, hesitantly, Tommy takes a step closer.

The crow hops down, claws clicking faintly against the wood as it lands on his desk. It moves with surprising purpose, hopping along until it reaches the very edge—so close Tommy can see the faint sheen of oil on its feathers. He bends down until they’re almost eye-level.

“Hello,” he whispers, clutching the pendant tight to his chest. Slowly, he extends his free hand. The crow caws again—softer this time—before stepping forward and settling easily onto his palm. Its weight is delicate, its talons sharp but not painful. A giddy warmth bubbles up in his chest, his earlier fear dissolving as the bird adjusts itself, rustling its wings before going still, content to perch in his open hand.

“You’re so cute,” Tommy murmurs, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “I dunno why Father and Mother are so set on getting rid of you all.”

He moves carefully, easing himself into the chair so as not to startle the bird. The crow hops neatly back onto the desk, tilting its head as though listening. “You’re not so bad,” Tommy adds, grinning faintly. “A little loud, I guess.”

Outside, the swarm still circles the house—a shifting black halo against the pale sky. His parents have gone out today, fleeing the unnerving presence of the birds and leaving Tommy behind to “mind the house.” He doesn’t mind, not really. It’s quieter this way.

And the strangest part—since they’ve been gone, the crows have been quieter too. No more furious cawing, no frantic fluttering. Just the steady rhythm of wings in the distance.

Reaching past the little crow, Tommy lifts a few of his scattered books to retrieve a small golden key. The metal clicks softly as he unlocks one of his drawers. He slips the pendant inside and drapes a handkerchief over it, hoping that if his father ever comes snooping through his things, he won’t notice the gleam of silver and emerald hidden beneath the fabric.

The bird caws again, sharp and bright, and Tommy glances up with a smile. “Did you give me that?” he asks, resting his chin on his folded arms as he studies the crow. It doesn’t answer, of course—just tilts its head, glossy feathers catching the light, and hops along the desk as if inspecting its surroundings.

“Well,” Tommy says softly, his voice almost a whisper, “thank you. It’s very pretty. I’ll take good care of it.”

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Tommy’s parents haven’t come back.

It’s been three days since they left for the village, muttering about finding some way to get rid of the crows. The house has been quiet ever since—eerily so—but Tommy doesn’t really mind. There’s a strange kind of peace in the stillness, a hush that lets him breathe without waiting for his father’s shout or his mother’s sharp sigh.

He spends more time outside now. Wandering the edges of the forest, inching closer each day until he can sit right at the line where sunlight dies and shadow begins. Sometimes he stays there until the sun sinks behind the trees, the air thick with gold and blue.

The creature doesn’t show itself, not yet, but he hears it sometimes—rustling low in the undergrowth, breathing just beyond sight. The crows keep him company instead. There are more of them now. Dozens, maybe hundreds.

They’ve been leaving him presents.

Not just the necklace anymore, but rings and bracelets, small trinkets of silver and gold. A delicate chain tangled in the grass. A gem tucked beneath his windowsill. He doesn’t know why, but he’s grateful.

He wears the necklace openly now, since there’s no one around to tear it off his neck. The other gifts he slips on one by one, until his fingers glint when he moves. They make him feel… different. Beautiful, maybe. Important. Treasured.

Sometimes, when he’s sitting at the forest’s edge, he talks into the trees.

It’s never anything grand—just soft little stories about his day, things like, I watered the hydrangeas today, or I sowed in another flower on my sweater. He talks until his voice grows hoarse and his fingers are buried in the moss. The creature never answers, but he thinks it listens. The air always feels thicker when he speaks, like the forest itself is leaning closer to hear him.

It’s nice, having someone who listens.

He doesn’t expect a reply, not really. He’s not used to anyone letting him talk this much—his mother always complained of headaches, and his father’s hand would silence him quicker than any word.

But the creature never interrupts, never scolds. It only listens, and the crows sit quietly at his feet, dark and watchful, as though guarding him.

Sometimes, Tommy thinks they understand him better than anyone ever has.

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Tommy’s parents never come back.

Weeks pass, then months, and the house somehow feels more alive without them. It’s strange—stranger than anything before. The floorboards no longer creak under angry footsteps, the air no longer smells like smoke or bitter wine. The silence is clean, comfortable. And yet, things happen that Tommy can’t explain.

The pantry never empties. No matter how much he eats, the shelves are always full again by morning—flour sealed, apples fresh, bread still warm. The animals in the barn are groomed and fed, their stalls tidy, their water pails gleaming. Tommy doesn’t know how to take care of the horses or the chickens—barely even the cows—but somehow, everything thrives.

Sometimes, men in blue uniforms come knocking. They speak softly, like one might to a frightened child, asking where his parents are, how long they’ve been gone. Tommy tells the truth: They went to the village. They haven’t come back yet. The men exchange looks. They promise to return with help, but when they wander too far past the treeline, they never do.

New ones arrive, search again, and vanish all the same. Eventually, they stop sending anyone at all.

Tommy doesn’t mind. He’s happy enough, really. The forest keeps him company, and the thing that lives within it has learned to write.

It began with crude scratches in the dirt—awkward symbols that might have been words if you squinted hard enough. Then, one morning, Tommy found a scrap of paper resting on the edge of the garden, the letters shaky and uncertain.

H E L O.

He’d laughed, delighted, and spent an entire afternoon showing the creature—through slow, careful speech and pictures—how to form proper words. It was difficult. The thing never showed itself, and Tommy never truly knew if it could even see what he was doing. But the lessons seemed to stick.

Each day brought a new note, the handwriting growing steadier, the messages clearer. Tommy would crouch by the treeline at sunset, read whatever had been written for him, and talk in response.

Did you sleep well?

Yes. I slept under stars.

Is it cold out there?

No. Not when you stay close.

The conversations were clumsy, but tender. The creature’s words were simple, almost childlike, but full of effort. Sometimes it spelled things wrong—luv instead of love, lite instead of light—but Tommy found it endearing. The creature was learning just for him.

It made him feel wanted.

One evening, the paper left for him read:

Are you lonely?

Tommy had stared at the words for a long time, the soft light of dusk painting gold across his skin. He turned the paper over in his hands, running his fingers along the uneven letters. It wasn’t a question he could answer quickly.

He thought about the empty house, the full pantry, the silent fields. He thought about how the forest always seemed to listen to him, how the crows still circled overhead like guardians, how every night he waited for the next letter.

Finally, he nodded to the shadows between the trees. “I think so,” he whispered. “I have you, of course. But I miss being hugged.”

The trees didn’t move. The crows didn’t stir. There was no rustle, no sound, no answer.

Tommy waited for a while, the paper trembling faintly between his fingers, before he smiled—small and wistful—and rose to his feet.

“It’s alright,” he murmured, folding the note neatly and tucking it into his pocket. “Goodnight.”

As always, he went back inside before the sun fully disappeared, unaware of the soft, shuddering breath that stirred the grass where he’d been sitting—or the faint warmth that lingered in the air, like shadowed arms reaching out, stopping just short of touching him.

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He made a mistake.

Tommy hadn’t meant to fall asleep. It was just so warm—the kind of gentle, golden warmth that seeps into bones and softens every thought. The sun had been spilling through the branches like honey, and the grass beneath him had been soft, damp with life. He’d been tired, his head heavy, his body loose from the still air and the rhythmic hum of the forest.

And so Tommy fell asleep.

The forest watched. The crows circled. The light dimmed. The day bled quietly into dusk, and dusk into a night that lingered far longer than it should have.

When Tommy woke, the world was different.

It wasn’t his home. It wasn’t even close.

The air was warmer here, thick with the scent of pine and burning wood. The faint crackle of a fire filled the silence, the soft orange light of its flame flickering across the walls of what looked like a cabin—small, quiet, and impossibly clean. Heavy wool blankets were piled over him, tucked close around his shoulders like he might be cold.

Tommy blinked slowly, confusion stirring as the world sharpened into focus. There were no windows. No sunlight. Only soft firelight, and a shadow too heavy for a simple trick of the light, watching him from the far corner of the room.

For a moment, Tommy said nothing. He just listened—to the faint creak of wood, to the low hum of something that wasn’t quite a growl, but wasn’t human either. When he finally sat up, he heard a faint clink, clink, clink—and froze.

Every inch of him glittered.

Gold and silver rings glimmered on his fingers, bracelets weighed down his wrists, and delicate chains hung from his neck in layers, tangling faintly in the wool blanket. Jewels sparkled in the firelight—sapphires, emeralds, amethysts, stones he didn’t even know the names of.

The same gifts the crows had brought him.

A slow smile curved across Tommy’s face as he lifted a hand, fingertips brushing the familiar emerald pendant at his throat.

“Thank you,” he whispered softly, voice trembling with wonder. His eyes found the heavy shadow in the corner again. “You’ve really outdone yourself this time.”

The shadow stirred, hesitant at first, then moving—sliding along the wall like ink spreading through water. It flowed toward him, silent, until the air itself seemed to thrum with its presence.

Tommy didn’t flinch. He never did.

He stayed still, breathing slow and steady as the darkness wrapped around him, gentle as it had always been. It wasn’t cold. It wasn’t frightening. It was warm. Like the air just before rain, or the hush of a forest right before dawn.

Arms—shapeless but sure—curled around his shoulders, holding him tight.

Tommy exhaled, a sound that was half a sigh, half a laugh, sinking into the embrace like it was the most natural thing in the world. The jewellery clinked faintly as he leaned into the warmth, his fingers still curled around the pendant.

He could feel it then—the pulse beneath the shadow’s surface, slow and deep, like the heartbeat of the forest itself.

“I like it here,” Tommy murmured after a while, voice small, content. “It’s quiet. You listen.”

The shadow didn’t answer, but he could feel it tighten its hold slightly, a soft hum vibrating through its chest—or whatever part of it that was.

“I think,” Tommy whispered, drowsy again, “I think I’ll stay for a while.”

The forest outside stirred in approval. The crows rustled their wings, their beady eyes gleaming faintly through the cabin window. They didn’t caw. They never did anymore.

Tommy smiled, leaning his head against the invisible shoulder beside him. The fire crackled softly, and the darkness held him close, careful, almost reverent.

He never did return home.

There was no need to. The creature was kind, the crows were loyal, and the forest—his forest—was alive with warmth.

And as the night deepened, the last trace of the human world faded from his memory, leaving only the rustle of wings, the shimmer of jewels, and the steady, endless heartbeat of something that loved him enough to never let him go.

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