MICROFICTION

The forest didn't care that Elias had lived there for forty years; it only cared that he was made of protein and salt.

He called the hollowed-out spruce "home," and for the most part, the forest agreed. It gave him wild leeks in the spring and heavy, velvet blackberries in the heat of July. He knew the language of the wind in the pines and the specific, hollow tap of a woodpecker that meant rain was coming. He slept to the lullaby of the creek, tucked into the green womb of the world.

But the forest was a landlord with a short temper.

One Tuesday, a root he had stepped over a thousand times caught his boot. As he fell, the soft carpet of moss hid a jagged spear of slate. He lay there, clutching a bleeding shin, while the same birds that sang for his morning coffee now circled overhead, measuring his stillness.

The woods hadn't changed—they were still his pantry, his roof, and his sanctuary. But as the sun dipped and the temperature went down, the shadows of the trees stretched out like long, thin fingers reaching for his warmth.

The forest was a home, yes. But it was a home that didn't mind if the tenant became the floorboards.