At the edge of town, where the road turned to gravel and the forest pressed close against the pavement, a figure stood beneath a bus shelter. The plastic roof rattled under the assault of the rain. The only light came from a single buzzing fluorescent tube that flickered every few seconds, casting the scene in brief, stuttering pulses of white.

The bus shelter smelled like wet cigarette butts and rust. A faded advertisement for a cell phone company peeled at the edges, the smiling model's face half-obscured by years of weather. Beyond the shelter, the forest loomed dark and dense, the trees bending toward the road like they were listening.

The figure shifted, pulling their jacket tighter. A pair of headphones hung around their neck, the cord disappearing into a pocket. Their breath fogged in the cold air.

The last bus of the night was already late. The schedule posted on the shelter wall said it should have arrived twenty minutes ago. The road stretched empty in both directions, dark and wet and silent except for the rain.

Somewhere deeper in the forest, a branch snapped.

The sound was sharp, deliberate. Not like an animal. Not like the wind.

The fluorescent light flickered again, and for a brief moment, the reflection in the wet pavement showed something standing at the edge of the treeline. A tall shape. Too still. Too patient. Then the light buzzed back on, and the shape was gone.

The rain kept falling. The forest kept watching.