The moon casts ominous shadows over the dusty wooden floorboards.
A young man sits on a rigid chair.
He holds a rough block of mahogany in his calloused hands, gently shaping the mundane chunk of dark wood into something beautiful.
With tender caresses of his carving knife he slices away small slivers taking special care to avoid cutting across the grain.
His hands are large and clumsy yet his fingers are nimble and dexterous in practicing their sole skill.
He nicks away the last piece.
With a swift sweep of his carving knife he engraves his initials into the side of his creation. J.W.
He tenderly curls his fingers around the tiny figurine, setting it on the grimy windowsill.
The cabin is silent.
An owl hoots softly from somewhere in the murky confines of the forest.
The crickets chirp.
The night is alive and wild and beautiful.
The man is alive.
The man is wild.
The man doesn't consider himself beautiful.
He believes the scars that line his face twist his features into something sinister.
That the curved half-moon marks that create paths and trails along his arms and torso disfigure him into a monster.
Some kind of creature of the night, a vampire or perhaps a werewolf.
But no.
He doesn't even leave the confines of his cabin at nightfall.
Seclusion is his philosophy.
His dirty clumps of blonde hair tumble into his eyes as he leans on the stiff pillars of the chair back.
He grimaces as he hears the sound of his spine cracking and snapping the hours of delicate woodwork away.
He closes his eyes, letting his sense of hearing fan out into the surrounding forest.
The soft padding of paws across the pine needle strewn ground makes him tense once again.
They're heading for the open doorway.
He reaches down and touches the filthy wooden floorboards.
The gritty layers smear across his fingers.
His fingers reach out into the pitch black expanse of air.
He feels a soft patch of fur and runs his fingers through it, evoking a soft muted purr.
The cat rubs against his jean clad ankles.
The purr becomes deeper, more feral.
The man feels the tufts of hair sprouting from the tops of his ears.
Bobcat.
The man growls.
The cat growls.
A quiet giggle comes from the doorway.
The man bristles, grabbing his carving knife from the windowsill and sitting silently in the blanket of darkness.
The blade protrudes from inside his enclosed palm.
A sly hunter waiting to lunge for his prey.
Silence rings from every corner of the tiny cabin.
Danger.
"Get out." the man snarls, his voice merely a hoarse whisper.
His throat is clogged with nervousness and a thick syrupy substance.
"But I just got here." a chiming voice tinkles from the silhouetted shadows.
A young girl steps from the doorway into the stream of moonlight.
Her hair is a untamed mess of spikes that blend seamlessly with the surrounding blackness.
She is tiny and pale, her skin seeming to give off a ghostly sheen in the single moon ray filtering through the grimy windowpane.
Her limbs are thin and bare.
A ratty green dress hangs loose from her bony shoulders, enveloping her in a baggy drape of fabric.
She smiles, leaning serenely against the wall.
With a quick click of her fingers she motions the bobcat over to her, petting him tenderly.
The wild cat curls around her skinny ankles and sighs contentedly.
The man stares at the girl.
The girl stares at the man.
Her eyes flicker dauntingly.
The man feels a blanket of goose bumps and tingles erupt over his skin.
"Hello." she murmurs softly.
"Why did you come here?"
"I saw that I should. So I did."
"Oh. I see."
"Do you?"
"No. Not at all."
"I didn't think so."
"I want to understand."
"Don't worry. You will."
"Why should I trust you? I don't know you."
"How will you get to know me if you don't trust me?"
"Maybe I don't want to know you."
"I know you don't. But you will."
"Get out of my house."
"Do you want me to?"
"I don't know. Do I? I think so. I think you should leave."
"Well, while you're thinking, do you think I should come back tomorrow?"
"No."
"Not even at dusk? When you can sit in your chair and hide from me in the shadows? Besides, you already know me."
"Do I?"
"No. But I do know you. Better than you know yourself."
"What are you? A prophet? A seer?"
"No. I'm just a human."
"Then leave me alone. Goodbye."
"I'll see you tomorrow night."
"Will you?"
"Perhaps."
The young woman slips silently out the door with the wild cat at her heels.
The man puts his head in his hands, red hot bouts of anger flowing through his veins.
He doesn't understand why he's angry.
The young woman didn't see his scarred face or his stained and dirt clogged clothes in the dim lighting.
The shadows had concealed him.
But she had shattered his wall of isolation as if it was a mere veil that one only had to gently shift to gain entry to.
How could she have possibly found me?
The man pondered.
He lives miles into the deep forests, far away from the reaching vines of civilization.
He thought he was safe.
The man wipes a weary hand down his scarred face, sighing in frustration.
Then he freezes.
With one shaky hand, he takes the small wooden figurine off the window sill and into his hands, staring at it in the dull moon rays.
The figurine stares back at him.
He slowly strokes a calloused finger over the lifelike recreation of the animal.
A bobcat.
The girl's melodic giggle snakes and weaves its way through his gated mind, sticking its tendrils into the lock and unfastening it with a gentle ease.
He smiles.
What a peculiar girl.
A perfect match for a peculiar man.
The End