Moonlit Hood Red Ember Thumb

He is not lost. You are.

The tree dropped its leaves on purpose. Not autumn. Spite. The leaves are hanging from branches like receipts he never asked for. The moon is full because it is afraid to be crescent around him. The crescent moon is a smile. This moon is not smiling. This moon is accounting.

The red eyes are not glowing. They are recording. Every step you took since you opened this page. Every scroll. Every pause. He knows you hesitated. He knows you went back up to check the thumbnail. He knows you are reading this now and wondering if he knows. He does. That is the entire point of the red.

The cloak is torn because he has been standing here since before capes were invented. He did not choose the cloak. The cloak accumulated, layer by layer, from every person who walked past and decided not to ask if he needed directions. He did not need directions. He needed acknowledgment. He is still waiting. You are still not giving it.

The roots at his feet are not roots. They are fingers, from things underground that tried to pull him down and failed. They are still trying. He is still standing. The roots are learning. The roots have patience he does not respect.

"He does not blink. The moon blinks for him. Once a month."