The old man at the edge of the town had a name no one remembered, but he was known for his collection of strange things. He lived in a house that stood alone, surrounded by thorny bushes and an overgrown garden that seemed to have forgotten the sun. The townspeople whispered about him, not out of fear, but because they couldn’t explain what he did with all the things he brought in from the forest. One autumn evening, a young woman named Lila, who had just moved to the town, decided to visit. She had heard stories of the old man’s cryptid artifacts—things that didn’t belong in any natural history book. The door creaked open as she approached, revealing a dimly lit room filled with glass cases, each holding something peculiar: a feather that shimmered like oil on water, a stone with eyes carved into it, and a set of bones that didn’t match any known animal. The old man greeted her with a smile that never reached his eyes. “You’re looking for something,” he said, more statement than question. Lila hesitated, then nodded. “I’ve heard you collect things from the woods. Things people don’t understand.” He led her deeper into the house, past shelves of books with titles written in a language that looked like smoke. “These are not just creatures,” he said. “They are echoes. Echoes of something that once existed, or perhaps something that still does.” He showed her a small box, its lid sealed with wax. Inside was a single black feather, smooth and cold to the touch. “This came from a creature called the Nocturne,” he explained. “It only appears when the moon is hidden. It doesn’t make noise, but if you hear it, you’ll know it’s watching you.” Lila felt a chill, but it wasn’t from the air. “Why do you keep these?” she asked. The old man looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. “Because they remind me of what I once saw. A shadow moving through the trees, not quite human, not quite beast. It left no tracks, no sound, just a feeling that something was wrong.” She asked him if he had ever seen it again. He shook his head. “But sometimes, when the wind is right, I can feel it watching me through the window.” Days passed, and Lila found herself returning to the house more often. She began to notice things—the way the light changed at certain times of day, the faint whispering in the walls, the way the old man’s hands trembled when he spoke of the Nocturne. She started to believe that the stories were real, and that the old man wasn’t just a collector—he was a witness. One night, she went to the forest alone, guided by a map he had given her. The trees loomed tall and silent, their branches twisting like fingers reaching for the sky. She followed the path until she came to a clearing where the grass was unnaturally green, and the air smelled of damp earth and something sweet, almost like blood. As she stepped into the center, the wind died. The stars above seemed to flicker, and for a moment, she thought she saw a shape moving between the trees. It wasn’t a person, nor an animal. It was something else, something that didn’t belong to the world she knew. Then, just as suddenly as it appeared, it vanished. Lila stumbled back, heart pounding, and ran home. When she returned to the old man’s house, he was waiting for her, as if he had been expecting her. “You saw it,” he said, not as a question, but as a certainty. “I don’t know what it was,” she whispered. He nodded. “It’s not a thing you can understand. It’s a memory. A presence. It’s always been there, waiting for someone to notice.” He handed her a small envelope. “If you want to see more, you must go deeper. But be warned—once you see, you cannot unsee.” Lila opened the envelope and found a key, along with a note written in a hand that looked too careful to be human. “The door behind the willow tree,” it read. She didn’t know if she would go. But deep down, she already knew she would. Because now, the forest wasn’t just a place—it was a living thing, and it had noticed her.