THE FOREST OF THE UNKNOWN: THE SACRED TALE

Chapter 6

The grief on their faces told me more than words ever could. My mother clutched my father’s hands tightly, shaking her head like she was still refusing to believe it. My youngest brother had his head buried in someone’s lap, sobbing uncontrollably. I watched, stunned. How could this be?

But that wasn’t the strangest part. The strangest part was how I had seen it. Because all I had done… was think. I had merely thought of my family. I had imagined their faces. I had wished to see them—and the vision had come to life before me like a movie projected from my own soul.

How? I didn’t know. Why? I had no idea. But the formula had revealed itself. Thought… intention… manifestation. I wasn’t even sure I believed in it yet. I didn’t care if it made sense. What mattered now was simple: I could use it. I could find them. I could understand what had happened. And maybe—just maybe—I could go back.

I had only thought of home. That was all. Just the thought—gentle, urgent, full of longing—and suddenly, I felt a soft breeze brush against my face. Then a pillow. Then the rustling of sheets. I opened my eyes. And there I was—home. Lying on my bed. Alive. The ceiling above me was familiar. The air smelled like home. My back sank into the mattress that had always felt too hard, and yet in that moment, it welcomed me like a lost child. But the strangest thing wasn’t where I was—it was who I saw first.

My mother. Her face hovered over mine, soaked with tears. Her shoulders trembled as she wept, her lips moving but making no sound. She looked pale, frightened… broken. Around her stood the rest of my family—father, uncles, aunts, siblings—all of them, eyes wide with sorrow and disbelief, tears spilling down their faces. Some were kneeling. Some standing. A few held their heads in their hands, shaking them slowly, as if mourning had frozen them in place.

I blinked, confused. I wasn’t surprised to see them—but I didn’t understand why they were all there, crying like that. I remembered seeing them earlier—hours ago, or so I thought. I remembered the chaos, the fleeing, the terror in their eyes as they ran from that place in the sky. I remembered standing alone while they disappeared into the distance. I hadn’t seen them again. Not until now. And now, they were here.

But it didn’t add up. How had I gotten here? When? Why were they all gathered like this? What had happened between then and now? I sat up slowly, the sheets falling away from me. As I moved, they gasped. Their cries suddenly stopped. My aunt stepped back like she’d seen a ghost. My little brother shrieked and ran behind Papa. My father’s jaw dropped open, as if he couldn’t believe his own eyes. My mother fell to her knees, covering her mouth. I froze.

Why were they looking at me like that? Why were they shocked to see me? I searched their faces, trying to understand. Then a thought slipped through my mind like a whisper in a storm: Maybe I died. Maybe… I returned home as a dead boy. Maybe my body came back without me. And only when I thought of being here—of home—only then did my soul return to it. I couldn’t be sure. I wasn’t sure of anything. All I had were guesses. Fragments. Feelings.

I could only speak from what I knew—that I was alive, that I had just risen from a bed surrounded by tears, and that their pain was real, their shock unquestionable. Still groggy and unsure, I turned to them all and asked quietly, “What happened? Why are you all crying?”

My voice cracked slightly, but it was firm enough. They didn’t answer right away. They just stared at me—as if speaking would break the fragile miracle that had just unfolded before their eyes.

For nearly a full minute, the room was drowned in silence. No one spoke. No one blinked. No one even moved. It was as though time had frozen in disbelief. The air felt thick, fragile, as though even a whisper could shatter the illusion. Their eyes remained fixed on me, wide and fearful, as if they were watching a ghost who hadn’t realized he was no longer of this world. It was like a dream for them. A strange dream they didn’t want to wake from—but were waiting to be woken from anyway. You could see it in their faces: they longed for someone to shake them gently and say, “It’s just a nightmare.” But no one played that role. No one moved to break the spell. They were trapped in the same helpless confusion that I was.

Looking at one another. Looking at me. Waiting. That was when it struck me: We were not in the same world anymore. Something had shifted. Something had changed me. I could feel it in my blood, in the way the air moved around me, in the way their eyes refused to meet mine for too long. I was among them—but I wasn’t one of them anymore. Not completely.

Still, I knew only one bridge could reconnect our broken worlds. Language. Only words—honest words—could make sense of what none of us understood. So I drew a deep breath, steadied myself, and decided to take the lead. "I don't know how I got here," I began, my voice low and unsure. “But I saw you all running away when—”

“Please stop talking,” my mother said sharply, rushing forward. Her voice trembled. “The pain would be too much for you.” Her words startled me.

Pain? What pain?

I looked down, and for the first time noticed the state of my body. My arms were tightly wrapped in thick, blood-stained bandages. So were my legs. My chest felt stiff, like it was being held together by something unseen. I slowly ran my hand across my body and winced slightly at the tenderness beneath the wrappings. My heart raced. I didn’t remember being injured. I didn’t remember anything happening to my physical body after those creatures struck me. Just… transformation. Just power. Just that stormy shift in my senses.

I raised my head and looked around again. "What’s all this?" I asked, my voice shaking slightly. No one answered. They all just looked at one another, unsure of who should speak first. Eventually, my father stepped forward, his eyes sunken with exhaustion, his voice hoarse. “You were… found lifeless,” he said slowly. “You weren’t breathing. No heartbeat. We carried your body for hours. The doctors confirmed you were gone.”

He paused, swallowing hard. “But just as we were preparing your burial… you started breathing again.”

“Can’t you remember?” my father asked, stepping closer, his voice thick with emotion. “You were knocked down… fatally… by a hit-and-run driver.” His words echoed in my ears like distant thunder. I stared at him, still trying to make sense of it.