Mycella Flies

As Mycella fluttered through the dim green light of the forest, a host of butterflies gathered about her, their wings painted in hues of amber, sapphire, and milk-white gold. They circled her playfully, weaving gentle spirals in the air as though she were the heart of some living garland.

On any other day, she would have laughed and joined their games — a merry chase between fern and flower, or a friendly race carried on the breeze toward the river where she loved to bathe. But this day was not like the others.

Something unseen lay upon the forest.

It felt as though a vast shadow had drifted between the trees — not cast by cloud or mountain, but by something that moved with silent intent. The leaves no longer rustled freely. The flowers seemed to bow their heads. Even the moss underfoot held its breath, as though fearing the fall of some unseen step that might crush it flat.

A chill ran down Mycella’s slender arms, though the air was warm.

“I must go,” she called to the butterflies, her voice gentle yet hurried. “Do not be sad. We shall play again when the forest feels light once more.”

With that she beat her wings faster, their emerald shimmer catching what little light filtered down. The butterflies, sensing her unease, did not follow.

Soon she reached a small clearing beside the riverbank — her secret bathing place, where the water ran clear over silver stones and sang soft songs to the reeds.

She landed lightly upon the moss and turned at once, her eyes searching the shadowed path behind her.

She listened.

Only the river answered.

Yet still she wondered… whether something — or someone — had come after her through the silent wood.