Raindrops
The rain stops falling as the kid stumbles into the clearing, drawn by the beacon pulling at his thoughts.
The smoking man plucks each still raindrop from the air. They swirl and flow around him in lazy circles, then mix with hovering clumps of mountain soil.
The smoking man is building statues, the kid thinks. Children and adults, their clothes made of mud running blue, faces sculpted in rainwater. They should crumble, and yet they don't. He weaves, and they stand.
"They're his family," the forest girl whispers from behind him.
"Are they dead?" he asks.
"No. They never existed."