Morro rubbed his temples, the lingering ache in his head now competing with the weight of indecision pressing against his chest. He slumped back against the gnarled roots of the tree, his bound wrists resting heavily on his lap as he stared blankly into the swirling mist around him. His thoughts churned, messy and tangled, like a storm with no clear direction.

"Great," he muttered to himself, his voice edged with sarcasm and frustration. "Stuck between a rock and a hard place. Again."

On one hand, the dryads were back in the direction he'd come from. They weren't trying to kill him—at least, not directly. But they had still held him against his will, tied up like he was a misbehaving child in their domain. And that kind of captivity didn't sit well with him, even if they weren't actively hostile. Going back to them would feel like admitting defeat, surrendering to their passive authority over him. He groaned at the thought.

On the other hand, there was Silbón. The ghost boy had bolted like his spectral life depended on it, sobbing specter-tears and running blindly into the dangers of Mysterium. It wasn't like Silbón had the best track record when it came to not getting himself killed—or whatever the equivalent was for someone in his state. Morro sighed heavily, his eyes scanning the darkness where Silbón had vanished. As much as he hated to admit it, he couldn't shake the gnawing feeling that the kid needed someone to stop him from doing something reckless.

"Why do I care?" he grumbled under his breath, dragging his bound hands against his thighs in irritation. "He's a ghost. He's already dead. And yet…" He frowned, biting the inside of his cheek as the unease coiled tighter in his chest.

The wind stirred faintly around him, tugging at his hair and the edges of his tattered clothes. It felt like it was urging him forward, toward the direction Silbón had fled, as if the forest itself knew he was stalling. Morro sighed again, his expression sour. "Figures the wind would have an opinion," he muttered.

He rose to his feet slowly, his muscles stiff but functional, and glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the dryads. Staying with them might have been the safer option—at least in the immediate sense—but safety had never been his style. Besides, he could already picture Silbón somehow getting himself caught by another hag or swallowed up by something worse, and that thought, oddly enough, made his stomach twist.

"All right, fine," Morro said aloud, as if the trees cared about his decision. "I'll go after him. But if he starts crying again, I'm out." The sarcasm in his voice didn't entirely mask the begrudging concern in his eyes as he took a step forward, following the faint trail left behind by the ghost boy.

Morro trudged through the misty forest, the faint trail left behind by Silbón leading him deeper into the thickets. His boots crunched softly against the damp earth, and his bound wrists swayed awkwardly at his chest as he moved. The wind nudged at him insistently, as if encouraging him to keep going, though he muttered under his breath about how he always seemed to be cleaning up someone else's mess.

Finally, his eyes landed on a faint shimmer of spectral form perched up in a tree. He squinted, stepping closer until the shape became clear—Silbón, crouched on one of the higher branches, his knees pulled close to his chest. His skeletal arms wrapped tightly around them, and his bony fingers twitched faintly. The boy's translucent form was still, save for the occasional shudder that rippled through his shoulders.

Morro frowned, craning his neck to call up to him. "What are you doing up there?"

The ghost boy flinched slightly at the sound of Morro's voice, his head snapping toward him. His black eyes were wide, glinting faintly with the lingering trails of spectral tears. "Hiding," Silbón whimpered softly, his voice thin and shaky.

Morro blinked, surprised by the stark vulnerability in the boy's tone. He shifted his weight, glancing at the tree and back at Silbón. "Hiding, huh?" he said, his voice softening just slightly. "Mind if I, uh, hide with you?"

Silbón sniffled, his black eyes narrowing faintly as though considering the question. After a moment, he gave a small nod, his ghostly form shimmering faintly. "You can," he murmured, still sniffling. "But… you stay quiet."

Morro sighed, muttering a faint "great" under his breath as he glanced at his bound wrists. Climbing a tree like this would be no small task, but the idea of leaving Silbón alone in his state didn't sit right. He took a step closer, his gaze flickering between the boy and the branches as he tried to figure out his approach.

With a small huff, the wind-child adjusted his bound wrists as he stared up at the tree, calculating his path among the gnarled branches and clusters of delicate cherry blossoms overhead. He took a deep breath, muttering under his breath, "Please don't turn me into a doll. Puppet, sure—been there. But a doll? Absolutely not." The thought sent a shiver down his spine, his eyes narrowing as he envisioned the absolute horror of that possibility.

With a grunt, he launched himself upward, using his legs to propel himself while his bound wrists made maneuvering awkward. Despite the challenge, his movements were quick and precise, years of ghostly agility coming back to him as he climbed in record time. He swung himself from branch to branch, his boots occasionally catching on the rough bark, though he hardly paused. "If the Ninja found out," he muttered as he hauled himself higher, "they'd never let me live it down. And let's be honest—would I even still be alive?" He winced at the thought. "A living doll. Creepy. Just… creepy."

The cherry blossoms fluttered gently in the breeze, their soft petals brushing against his hair as he climbed higher, their beauty almost masking the unnerving possibility of their magical malevolence. Morro huffed as he reached the higher branches, his muscles straining slightly against his awkward restraints. He finally pulled himself onto the same branch where Silbón sat, his spectral form still curled up in his "hiding" position.

"Well," Morro said as he settled onto the branch, his boots scraping lightly against the bark, "I made it, and the blossoms didn't turn me into a creepy doll. Win-win, I guess."

Silbón sniffled softly, glancing at Morro with his wide black eyes. "You… climbed fast," the ghost boy murmured, his voice quiet and slightly uneven.

Morro smirked faintly, leaning back against the trunk to steady himself. "What can I say? I've got some skills," he replied, his tone carrying a hint of cocky humor. "Now, you said we're hiding, right? So what's the game plan, oh great specter of the mist?"

Silbón sniffled again, wiping his translucent face with his skeletal hand. "Stay quiet," he said softly, his voice trembling. "That's the plan."

Morro exhaled, adjusting his position to avoid the cherry blossoms brushing too close to his face. "Quiet hiding it is," he muttered, though his mind couldn't help lingering on what horrors these seemingly harmless blossoms could unleash.