Looking up, she whispered, “When will I be able to go home?” Something stirred behind her. Leaves shifted. A presence pulsed in the darkness. She didn’t turn. She didn’t need to. She exhaled quietly, then walked back in and closed the door.
Outside, the coyote emerged — low and silent, the guardian of these woods. Its nose brushed the spot where she had stood only seconds before, drinking in the scent like memory. It moved closer to the cabin, drawn by more than instinct. The air thickened. Its eyes glinted with a strange intelligence. "I don't want you to leave. I will be devastated if you go."
She felt the thought land inside her mind, uninvited but not unfamiliar. Her chest tightened, but she did not reply. She wrapped herself in stillness and silence. The coyote lingered a moment, circling the cabin with an air of reluctant surrender. Then, it sniffed around the rubbish pile, picked up a forgotten scrap — perhaps something that smelled like her — and disappeared into the dark, leaving the girl alone with the green star and her unanswered question.
Morning crept in slow and grey, unwilling to disturb the stillness that blanketed the woods. The girl awoke to the rustling of branches — not wind, but something heavier. More deliberate. She sat up on the rough cot, clutching the blanket close. The fire had died out sometime in the night, but its memory lingered faintly in the scent of ash and cedar.
She hadn’t dreamed. That was the worst part. At least dreams came with exit signs. She crossed the small room to the cracked window and peeked outside. The forest crouched in a quiet hush, the way children pretend to sleep when the teacher walks in. The green star, now gone from the sky, had left a strange ache in her chest. She reached for the kettle and started boiling water over the stove. The act grounded her. Measured. Human.
Then, it happened again. > thump... thump... drag... Something was being pulled across the ground outside — slow, rhythmic, like a body... or a memory. She froze. A moment later, a low hum drifted in through the window, not a voice, not music — something in between. The Rootsong. That’s what the old woman had called it. The song the earth sang when something beneath it stirred. She hadn’t heard it in weeks. Not since the forest had fallen quiet. And then a whisper — not from outside, but from inside her mind. > "You're not ready to go home. You’ve only just arrived." This time, it wasn't the coyote’s voice. This voice was older. Rougher. Like tree bark soaked in blood and time.
She staggered back from the window, knocking over the cup. It shattered like a warning bell. Outside, the forest exhaled. Something was coming. Not the coyote. Something older than him. Something he had warned her about in those first few nights, when she still let his thoughts in. She bolted the door. Then again, though she knew it would not help. With trembling hands, she lit a candle and whispered an old phrase, half-forgotten from childhood bedtime stories: > “Roots below, stars above, keep me hidden, keep me loved.” The flame flickered once… then turned green.
The green flame danced in the candle, casting odd shadows on the wooden walls — shadows that didn’t quite match the angles of the furniture. The girl stared at it, unblinking.
“They’ve found me,” she whispered. She didn’t need the voice in her head to tell her that. She could feel it in her bones — or whatever her bones had become on Earth. The Rootsong had reached its crescendo. The soil was vibrating with signals not meant for this planet. They were digging through dimensions now. The knock came not at the door, but from above. Three pulses. Long. Short. Long again.
She tilted her head upward. There, just above the ceiling, reality shimmered like heat on desert roads. The cabin was no longer safe. It had been a cocoon — a dream, really. A place to heal, to hide, to almost forget. But Earth never truly let her forget. Its gravity wasn’t just physical — it was emotional. Heavy with grief and memory and the tug of unwanted affection.
She unbolted the door and stepped out into the dawn. The sky above was brightening, but there — hanging low in the west — was the green star. Brighter than ever. No longer distant. A small green pod hovered silently among the trees, cloaked from human eyes. It had landed just beyond the clearing, humming her name in frequencies no Earth creature could hear. The coyote was already waiting. He stood at the tree line, head low, eyes luminous with mourning. > “You don’t have to go. We were making something here... weren’t we?” She closed her eyes. His thoughts were warmer now, more human. He had learned her — and she had let him. > “I wasn’t meant to stay. You know that.” > “I’ll forget your voice,” he said. “I’ll forget the smell of the stars on you.” She smiled, but didn’t answer. Instead, she walked toward the pod, her steps barely making a sound. As she passed the coyote, she reached out and laid one hand lightly on his fur. > “You’ll remember me in the wind. And in the silence between howls.” The door to the pod opened with a sigh. Inside, lights pulsed gently, like a heartbeat. She paused once, just before entering, and looked back at the cabin — at the world that had held her for a little while, even if it never understood her. Then she was gone. The pod shimmered, lifted, and vanished — folding into the green star above, which blinked once, then faded from the sky like a secret finally told. The coyote sat alone in the clearing. And when he howled, the trees bent gently toward him.
