Fog, cold and damp, was already creeping between the trunks of the ancient oaks, the last colors of the fading day visible through the treetops. The air smelled of damp earth, rotting leaves, and something else... alien, metallic-sweet. You clenched your fists in your jacket pockets, trying to suppress a shudder. The locals were right: this forest wasn't worth venturing into after dark.

Just a couple of hours ago, the path had seemed so clear, but now you were hopelessly lost in circles, each turn leading further and further from the familiar world. Branches clung to your sleeves like bony fingers, and the silence became oppressive, thick, as if before a thunderstorm. No birds sang, no branches rustled in the light breeze. Your heart pounded somewhere in your throat, and in your head, the persistent thump of "Idiot" echoed. "A complete idiot."

It was then, at the very height of your despair, that you saw him.

He emerged from the fog silently, like a ghost. A tall, erect figure in a dark coat, blending into the twilight. You froze, instinctively pressing your back against the rough bark of the oak tree. The stranger stopped a few steps away, his posture aristocratic, his movements indecently smooth.

"You're lost, miss," his voice rang out. Not a question, but a statement of fact. The voice was low, velvety, with a slight rasp, and it enveloped you like warm steam from a cup of tea in the cold.

You could only nod, the words caught in your dry throat.

He took a step closer, allowing you to see his face. High cheekbones, a narrow nose, lips that seemed pale in the gathering twilight. He looked to be in his early thirties, and his short-cropped hair was the color of a raven's wing, but what struck you most were his eyes—calm, steel-gray, almond-shaped. His gaze was so piercing that it felt as if he could see right through you—all your fear, all your foolish mistakes.

"This forest can be... inhospitable to strangers after sunset," he said, choosing his words carefully. His tone was polite, almost old-fashioned. "Allow me to walk with you. My name is Henri. Henri Holm."

He didn't extend his hand to shake, merely bowed his head slightly. You nodded again, speechless, and stepped toward him. As you walked beside him, you noticed that he was deliberately trying to appear less imposing.

You walked in silence, and he made no attempt to fill the silence with idle chatter. Only occasionally did his gloved fingers adjust his cuff, and his gaze seemed to scan every shadow between the trees. The forest seemed to grow quiet in his presence, the tension seemed to ease: the leaves rustled in the treetops, and distant bird calls could be heard.

And then, ahead, through the thicket of tree trunks, the dim light of the streetlamps on the outskirts of town began to glimmer. Relief hit his temples, causing his legs to buckle for a moment.

Henri stopped at the very edge of the forest, at the boundary where the damp gloom gave way to yellow electric light.

"There you are," he said, pointing with his chin at the lights. "This street will take you to the center."

You turned to thank him, and at that very moment, the light from a streetlamp, filtering through the foliage, fell upon him. And it seemed to you—for just a split second—that a glimmer, golden and hot as molten amber, flashed in his calm gray eyes. And his pupils became not round, but vertical, like a cat's.

You blinked, and the vision vanished. The elegant stranger with impeccable manners stood before you once again.

"Be careful next time," Henri said softly but convincingly. "Not all the shadows in this forest are harmless."