Moonlight Heart

LILA'S POV “Please don’t go, Lila… it’s too dark.” My aunt’s voice trembled like the thin mist curling over the wooden floor. I stopped at the door, my hand still on the latch. Her eyes looked red, tired—like she hadn’t slept all night again. “I’m only going to fetch the herbs,” I said softly. My voice sounded small in the quiet house. The morning wind pressed against the shutters, and the sound of it made me shiver. The world outside was still sleeping. The moon hung low, fading into gray clouds, and the air smelled of wet earth and wood smoke. Every morning, I helped Aunt Mara pack herbs to sell at the market. We did this together since… well, since I could remember. She nodded finally, though her lips pressed tight. “Be quick, my dear. The forest wakes hungry before sunrise.” I tried to smile, though her words always sent a strange chill through me. Hungry forest, she always said. As if the trees themselves were watching. The basket in my hands felt heavier than it should have. I stepped into the cold morning and walked down the small path that led behind our cottage. My boots crunched against the frosty grass. A bird cried somewhere in the dark, then went silent. Our garden waited—quiet and silver under the fading moonlight. Dewdrops clung to the herb leaves, shining like tiny stars. I crouched low, breathing in the soft scent of mint and lavender. My fingers moved carefully, pinching off the best stems and laying them gently into the basket. The forest stood at the edge of the garden. Dark. Still. Alive. I always felt it breathing, like a giant animal pretending to sleep. Aunt Mara said the forest had its own heart. That once, long ago, it belonged to something sacred—something that now only howled at night. I didn’t believe her. Not really. But every time I looked into the trees, I felt… watched. “Stop it, Lila,” I whispered to myself, trying to shake the thought away. The morning wind carried the smell of pine and smoke. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but the sky had turned pale gray. I loved this moment before the day began. It was quiet, like the world was holding its breath. I gathered the last of the herbs and turned back toward the house. The basket was half full—enough for Aunt Mara to dry for the market later. But then I froze. Something moved in the trees. A shadow. It wasn’t the wind. It wasn’t an animal either. The sound was too slow… too careful. I stood perfectly still, clutching the basket close. My heart began to pound in my chest, loud enough that I was sure whatever it was could hear it. The branches swayed once. Then again. “Who’s there?” I whispered. No answer. Only the sigh of leaves and the faraway cry of a raven. I wanted to run back to the house, but my feet wouldn’t move. And then—eyes. Two glowing dots of silver light blinked from the darkness. They were too high to belong to a fox, too big for a bird. My breath caught in my throat. The eyes didn’t blink again. They just… watched. Cold spread up my arms. The basket slipped from my hands, and the herbs scattered across the ground. The silver eyes blinked once more—and vanished. The forest went completely silent. I stumbled backward, tripping over my own feet. My knees hit the ground hard, and the taste of earth filled my mouth. When I looked up again, there was nothing but trees and fog. “Lila!” My aunt’s voice cut through the silence. I turned quickly. She was running toward me, her shawl slipping off her shoulders, her face pale. “What happened?” she gasped, kneeling beside me. “I—I saw something,” I stammered. “In the forest. Eyes, Aunt Mara. Silver eyes.” Her expression changed. Fear. Not surprise—fear. She gripped my shoulders tightly. “You must never look into those eyes again, do you understand?” I nodded, though my voice felt trapped in my throat. She looked toward the forest, her lips moving like she was whispering a prayer. “They’ve found us sooner than I hoped,” she murmured. “Who?” I asked, but she only stood up and pulled me to my feet. “Come inside. Now.” By the time the sun climbed over the hills, the fear had softened into something quieter—but it hadn’t gone away. Aunt Mara said nothing more about what I’d seen. She only worked faster, packing the dried herbs into tiny cloth bags, her hands trembling every few minutes. I tried to help her, though my thoughts kept circling back to the forest. To those eyes. Maybe it was a trick of the light. Maybe I was just tired. But deep down, I knew it wasn’t my imagination. Something was out there. At noon, we walked to the market together. The path was busy with villagers carrying baskets and barrels, chickens clucking at their heels. Children laughed and chased each other, throwing pebbles at the dusty road. Everything looked normal. Safe. But when I looked toward the woods, I saw a crow sitting on a fence post, staring straight at me. Its feathers shimmered strangely under the sun, almost silver. That night, I couldn’t sleep. The air was too still. The moonlight crept through the window like spilled milk, cold and quiet. Aunt Mara had fallen asleep in her chair by the fire. The only sound was her breathing and the crackle of wood. I rolled onto my side, staring at the ceiling. My chest ached with unease. What if the eyes came back? I pushed the blanket aside and stood. My bare feet touched the cool wooden floor. The window was open just a crack. The night air slipped in, carrying the scent of rain and pine. Something moved outside. Not big—just a shadow crossing the garden. I leaned closer, my breath fogging the glass. The herbs we picked that morning swayed softly in the breeze. Then, out of nowhere, a small feather floated through the air and landed on the windowsill. Silver. I reached out and touched it. It was warm. The moment my fingers brushed it, a sound filled the night—long, low, and haunting. A wolf’s howl. It came from deep within the forest, echoing across the valley. Another howl followed, and another, until the air seemed to tremble. My heart pounded so hard it hurt. Aunt Mara stirred in her chair but didn’t wake. I backed away from the window, clutching the feather in my hand. It pulsed with faint light, as if alive. Then, from outside, came a sound that froze my blood. Footsteps. Soft. Steady. Coming closer. The door creaked once. A whisper slipped through the crack—gentle but sharp enough to slice the quiet. “Lila…”