The Forest Watcher Beneath the Stars
Deep within the northern woods—where pine leaves whisper of ancient things, and the dark is not a fear but a cloak of quiet protection—stands the Watcher.
Not man, nor deity.
But a moose cloaked in winter’s eternal mantle, its antlers rising like branches kissed by starlight. Moss grows upon them like memory, and faint green glimmers cling to them like dreams too shy to be told.
He does not speak. He moves little.
Yet each step brings a hush of peace, each breath a breeze that winds gently through the heart of the forest, waking old spirits that forgot they were still alive.
They say, if you lose your way beneath a sky spilling with stars, do not cry out.
Be still. Look toward the light.
And if fortune finds you, you may see him—the Watcher.
He won’t guide you back. But his presence alone is enough to make the darkness less alone.
And sometimes, that is all we truly need.
Because the most sacred thing in this world
Is not always salvation—
But to be understood, in silence, beneath the stars.
