Every morning, the old man would walk the same path through the woods behind his house, a quiet ritual that had become part of his daily life. He didn’t know why he did it, but the trees seemed to whisper to him in a language only he could understand. It was on one such morning, when the mist clung to the ground like a living thing, that he noticed something strange. At the base of an ancient oak tree, half-buried in the moss, were symbols carved into the bark. They weren’t natural markings, nor were they the work of any known hand. The shapes twisted and curled like smoke, forming patterns that seemed to shift when he looked away. The old man knelt, brushing his fingers over the carvings, feeling a faint warmth beneath them. It wasn’t cold, even though the air was crisp. He took out his notebook and began sketching them, trying to capture their essence. The symbols seemed to pulse slightly as he drew, as if they were alive in some way. That night, he couldn’t sleep. The images haunted his dreams—whispers in a language he almost understood, shadows moving just beyond the edge of his vision. The next day, he returned to the tree, determined to find more. He searched for hours, following the trail of symbols deeper into the woods. They appeared on stones, on fallen branches, even on the trunks of trees that had been there for centuries. Some were fresh, others worn by time. Each one was unique, yet connected in a way that defied logic. He felt a pull, a strange compulsion to follow them, as if they were guiding him somewhere. Days turned into weeks, and the old man became obsessed. He stopped going to town, stopped speaking to neighbors, and spent every waking moment tracing the symbols. He found a pattern, a sequence that led him toward the heart of the forest. The deeper he went, the more the air changed. It grew heavier, thick with an energy that made his skin tingle. The trees stood taller, their branches weaving together like a cathedral ceiling. At last, he reached a clearing where the symbols formed a circle around a small stone altar. In the center lay a single object—a smooth black stone, cool to the touch, etched with the same symbols. When he placed his hand on it, a wave of warmth spread through his body, and the world around him seemed to slow. He heard voices, not in words, but in feelings—memories of places he had never been, of people he had never met. Suddenly, the symbols began to glow, casting an eerie blue light across the clearing. The old man stumbled back, heart pounding. He tried to leave, but the path behind him had vanished, replaced by dense fog that swallowed everything. The symbols on the tree trunks now glowed brighter, and the whispers grew louder, more insistent. He closed his eyes, willing himself to wake up, but when he opened them, he was still there, standing in the middle of the clearing. The stone was gone, and the symbols had disappeared, leaving only the faintest traces on the bark. The forest was silent again, as if nothing had happened. But the old man knew better. He walked back home, his steps slow and uncertain. The villagers noticed his change—his eyes were different, filled with something distant, something unreadable. They asked what he had been doing, but he only smiled and said nothing. That night, he sat by the fire, staring into the flames, thinking about the symbols, the whispers, the stone. In the days that followed, he began to see the symbols everywhere. On walls, on the pavement, even in the reflection of his own eyes. They were always there, just out of reach, waiting. And though he tried to ignore them, he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were watching him, learning from him, preparing for something. One evening, as he sat alone in his study, the symbols appeared once more, this time on the pages of his notebook. They moved, shifting and rearranging themselves, forming a message that he couldn’t read. A chill ran down his spine, and for the first time in years, he felt afraid—not of the symbols, but of what they might mean. He closed the book, but the symbols remained, glowing faintly in the dim light. And as the night deepened, the old man wondered if he had truly found the symbols, or if they had found him.