Noah Lee didn’t like silence. Not the heavy kind that wrapped itself around your chest and refused to let go. Not the kind that filled the car as his mother drove them up winding roads into the foggy mountains, neither of them saying a word.

His headphones played the same song on loop — something slow, haunting, with lyrics he barely listened to anymore.

Pinehollow welcomed them with mist instead of people. The town seemed like it had been forgotten by time, its wooden sign half-faded, its streets too quiet for 3 p.m. on a weekday. There were pine trees everywhere — tall and ancient, brushing the sky like they owned it. They leaned in close, whispering to each other when no one was looking.

Noah stepped out of the car and stared up at them.

“Creepy,” he muttered.

Everything in Pinehollow felt like it had been paused mid-sentence: the chipped café sign that no one repainted, the windows that never changed displays, the locals who nodded without smiling — like they knew exactly who you were, and they didn’t need to ask why you came.

Noah had reasons. He always had reasons.

And this time, they were sharp enough to send him running.

The house his mother had rented was small and a little sad, but she called it "cozy." She tried to smile when she handed him the key to his room, but her eyes didn’t quite match it.

He dropped his bags and lay down without unpacking. The mountains outside his window looked like sleeping giants, the trees like soldiers standing guard. It was so quiet, he could hear his own breathing.

That night, he dreamed.

He was standing in the forest, barefoot. The moonlight was silver and cold. Wind slipped through the trees like a voice — not quite words, but almost. He turned slowly, and there — between two massive trunks — stood a boy. Pale skin, wild curls, paint-streaked hands.

The boy lifted a finger to his lips.

Don’t speak.

Then he smiled.

Noah woke up with his heart beating too loud in his chest. He sat up, rubbing his face.

“What the hell…”

🌙 Two days later

He followed his mom to the town market, earbuds in, hoodie up. Everything here smelled like pine needles and old wood. As she browsed vegetables, Noah wandered toward the local art stall.

Most of the paintings were peaceful scenes of cabins, lakes, and wildlife — but one caught him completely off guard.

A forest.

Moonlight.

A boy in the trees with paint-streaked fingers.

His smile frozen in brushstrokes.

Noah's stomach flipped.

It was his dream. Every detail. Exactly.

His fingers trembled as he turned the canvas over. A small signature in the corner:

E.V.

He looked up, scanning the stalls.

“Who painted this?” he asked the old woman running the booth.

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh, that one? Eli Voss. Quiet boy. Lives on the edge of town, near the forest.”

She smiled faintly. “He paints what the trees tell him.”

But just as Noah turned back toward the town path, something caught his eye.

A flicker.

A movement.

No — a figure.

Standing deep within the tree line. Still. Watching.

He blinked. And it was gone.

Only the wind stirred now, shifting the pine needles like whispers too soft to hear.

His chest tightened.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just the forest playing games with his tired mind.

Still… his footsteps quickened on the way back.

And when he reached the edge of town, he didn’t look back.

He couldn’t explain why.

But somehow, he knew—

That wasn’t the last time the forest would look back at him.

Noah hadn’t meant to come looking for him. Not really. He told himself it was just curiosity, just a walk. But somehow, the winding trail behind the market had led him deeper and deeper into the woods, where the trees stood closer together and the air felt thick with watching.

The directions the old lady gave him were vague:

"Follow the path until the ground turns soft. Keep left when you hear water. You’ll find his cabin where the forest gets quiet."

The forest was never quiet, though. It whispered.

Leaves rustled when there was no wind. Branches creaked like old bones. Noah’s sneakers sank slightly into the mossy ground, and for a moment, he felt like he was walking through a dream again — the one with the moonlight and the boy.

A splash of color broke through the green ahead.

He froze.

There it was.

A small wooden cabin, half-hidden by overgrown vines and shadow. The porch was covered in canvases — some blank, some alive with color. Bottles of paint sat uncapped, brushes poking out like tired flowers. Music hummed softly from inside, some instrumental piece that sounded like rain and aching.

Noah stepped forward and knocked once.

No answer.

He raised his hand to try again — but the door creaked open slightly before he touched it. Just a sliver.

"...Hello?" he called softly, eyes darting to the trees. "Uh… I’m looking for Eli?"

Silence.

Then a voice, low and rough like it hadn’t been used in days:

“You’re standing in the dream.”

Noah blinked. “What?”

The door opened wider.

And there he was.

The boy from the painting.

In real life, Eli Voss looked even more surreal. His dark curls were messier, like he’d just woken up. A smear of blue paint streaked his cheek. His eyes — grey, sharp, and tired — studied Noah like a puzzle he wasn’t sure he wanted to solve.

“You were in it,” Eli said again, quieter now. “The forest. The moon. You were standing exactly where you are now.”

Noah took a small step back.

“I— You painted my dream. That painting at the market—”

“I didn’t paint your dream,” Eli interrupted. “I just paint what the trees whisper.”

They stared at each other for a long second. Noah’s breath caught in his chest.

The moment broke when Eli stepped outside and pushed a canvas toward him.

“This one came last night,” he said. “Take it.”

Noah looked down.

The painting showed him again — this time asleep, headphones still in, a small smile on his face. But there was something else. A faint shadow behind him. Something dark, watching.

“…What is that?”

Eli tilted his head. “That hasn’t happened yet.”

And then, without another word, Eli turned and closed the door.

What a freak?!

He couldn't hold his curiosity so he looked through the window

Something about him felt like a dream Noah had once.

Something about him made the air hold its breath.

Noah didn’t mean to make a sound — but a twig cracked under his foot. And was forced to run.

Noah was trying to recall where he has seen him before..well maybe not in person

But he knew it.

He knew it.

🌘 End of Chapter Two

Noah couldn’t sleep.

He tossed in his creaky bed, the forest brushing against his window like fingertips tapping for attention. The canvas Eli had given him sat on his desk, turned face-down — but it didn’t matter. He could still feel it. That shadow behind him in the painting, standing just a breath away.

The strangest part?

It didn’t scare him.

It thrilled him.

The next morning, Noah skipped the market and walked straight toward the trees. He didn’t even hesitate this time. The path felt familiar, like the earth remembered his steps.

He didn’t know what he was going to say. He didn’t even know why he needed to see Eli again.

He just… did.

When he reached the cabin, Eli was outside — barefoot, shirt loose, sleeves rolled up, paint smeared all over his hands like warpaint. He didn’t look surprised to see Noah.

“You came earlier than I thought,” Eli said, not looking up from the canvas he was working on. “It’s still morning.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Eli dipped a brush into dark green and swept it across the canvas. “Sleep is where the pines whisper loudest.”

Noah shifted awkwardly. “You keep saying that. The pines whisper. What does that even mean?”

Eli paused. His brush hovered above the canvas, paint dripping.

“You really want to know?”

Noah hesitated — then nodded.

Eli looked at him. Really looked at him. His eyes were pale grey, like fog right before rain. Then he pointed to the forest behind him.

“Go into the woods. Alone. After midnight. No lights. No music.”

Noah blinked. “That sounds like how people die in horror movies.”

Eli smirked — the first real expression Noah had seen on him.

“You won’t die,” he said. “But something will change.”

🌙 That Night

Noah waited until the clock struck twelve. His mom was asleep. The house was still. The trees outside his window were waiting.

He slipped out the door, hoodie zipped up, heart racing.

No lights. No phone. Just him and the cold.

As he stepped into the forest, the temperature dropped. Dew kissed his ankles. The air tasted electric.

At first, there was nothing.

Then the whispers began.

Not voices, not words — just feelings. Regret. Longing. Curiosity. Grief. The forest pulsed with memory.

Noah walked deeper.

And then—

He heard his name.

Whispered softly. Behind him.

He turned, breath caught.

There stood Eli. Not quite real — a little too still, a little too glowing.

"Eli?" he whispered.

But Eli didn’t speak.

He just watched.

Then, impossibly, he stepped forward — reached out — and touched Noah’s chest, right over his heart.

Noah gasped awake in his bed, drenched in sweat, heart racing. He looked around. Window open. Forest whispering.

And on his desk?

A new painting.

Him. In the woods. Eyes closed. Eli’s hand on his chest.

Painted in moonlight.

🌒 The Next Day

He marched to the cabin, heart in his throat. Eli was painting again, barefoot again, like the forest had raised him.

“You were in my dream,” Noah said.

Eli didn’t stop painting.

“You touched me,” Noah said, voice quieter now. “In my dream. You left another painting.”

Finally, Eli turned.

“I didn’t leave it,” he said calmly. “The forest did.”

Noah stared at him. “Are you saying the trees are painting now?”

“I’m saying,” Eli said, walking closer, voice low, “that I see things. You feel them. And that shadow in your dreams?”

He stopped just a breath away. Noah could feel the heat between them.

“…It’s getting closer.”

And this time, it wasn’t just creepy. It was intimate. Like secrets brushing skin. Like the edge of something dangerous… and beautiful.

...❤️‍🔥 Chapter Three End...