Chapter 36. Theres House in the Woods.

1. (There's a house in the woods)

A still shot.
The forest does not move, but it breathes.
Beneath the canopy of evergreens and brightly colored leaves—orange like ripe flesh, purple like bruises, yellow like prayers left too long in the sun—
there is a cabin.

A single light burns in the window, soft and golden.
The snow is deep, but the air is warm—unnaturally so, as if spring has begged for just one more moment with winter.

Above, the sun shines in a low, wide arc—like it’s remembering something.
And all around the house, the colors of the leaves whisper in chromatic hush.

There is no sound.
Only waiting.
Only the knowing hush of a place left too long alone.

2. (There's a chair near the door)

Still shot.
Just inside the cabin now.
Not much has changed.

The wooden floor is aged and bowed beneath a threadbare rug.
A woven blanket rests over the back of a creaking chair—
pine-made, hand-cut, old-fashioned,
with nicks on the leg where someone once sat and carved to pass time.

The door behind it rattles lightly in its hinges,
as if it wants to open,
but cannot remember why.

Dust floats in the light that cuts through the window—
diagonal, golden, cutting like a blade across forgotten tea cups, curled-up books, and empty frames.

The chair doesn’t look sad.
But it looks like it remembers sadness.

3. (And there's a feeling that hides)

Still shot.
Close-up:
The walls.

Photographs, slightly faded, sit inside wooden frames.
One has been turned face-down.
Another shows a man—but his eyes are scratched out. Not in anger. Just… erased.

A kettle, long cold, still sits on the stove.
One teacup has lipstick on it—though no one wears lipstick here anymore.

And there’s that feeling.
Like someone just left.
Like if you blinked too long, they’d still be sitting there at the table,
half turned, about to say something they never got the chance to.

A draft moves. But it doesn’t feel like wind.
It feels like memory.

4. (Beneath the floorboards)

Still shot.
Low angle.
Down at the base of the stairs, where the planks are a little loose.

One corner of the wood is chipped.
Not from use,
but from fingernails.

The light doesn’t reach down here.
Even though it should.

And something about the floor—
The way it sighs when you step on it.
The way the grain looks like veins.
The way it hums, faintly, when the piano in the next room plays by itself.

That’s where it hides.
The feeling.
The past.
The shape of someone who left the house,
but never made it through the door.

 5 (While it creaks and cracks)

Still shot.
A close-up of the hallway wall.
A jagged line splits the plaster.
A crack—long and veinlike—slithers across like a memory trying to escape.

The floorboards beneath an empty doorway bend just slightly under no weight.
Somewhere in the distance, wood groans.

The house does not fall.
But it asks to.
It aches to.
Because no one repairs it anymore.

Because no one stays long enough to call it alive.

6. (I'm slowly getting old)

Still shot.
A mirror.
Dust-covered, speckled, rimmed in black iron.

In it: a face you do not recognize.
Gray skin.
Eyes like distant moons.

Ydoc?
Or something worn thin from being him for too long?

A hand reaches up to touch the reflection.
Not to confirm,
but to plead.

A wrinkle forms—not on the face,
but in the time between blinks.
As if age is no longer measured in years,
but in silences too long held.

7. (In a struggle to find)

Still shot.
An open drawer.
Letters—tied in twine.
A pendant.
A torn page from a story never finished.

And at the back, beneath a moth-eaten scarf,
a small paper note:

“You said you’d never forget. So why am I still waiting?”

There’s a sound of papers flitting…
But no wind.

The drawer shuts.
The struggle goes on.

8. (What I'm looking for)

Still shot.
A half-burned photograph.
Blurry.
A group of people— Holokons? Smiling. Holding hands.

In the center, a young man.
Ydoc? No—... perhaps.
Unmistakably laughing, arms outstretched, being lifted off the ground.

The scene is beautiful, but blurred—
edges melted, like a dream you woke from too fast.

You can’t see their eyes.
You can’t hear what was said.
Only the motion.
The joy.
The faint smell of pine and soup.

What you’re looking for…
Is just out of reach.

9. (Endless love)

Still shot.
The hearth.
Once bright.
Now cold ash.

But next to it—folded lovingly—
a knitted shawl, wrapped around a small ceramic figure:
a bird with a missing wing.

No one broke it.
It was always missing.
But it was still loved.

On the shelf above, five candles sit unlit.
Their wax still fresh. Waiting.
One for each name you can’t remember,
but whose love still holds you.

A whisper hums through the rafters:

“They never stopped.”

10. (And I'm beginning to drown)

Motion picture.
Inside the cabin, the light dims.
The walls bend inward. The corners darken.

A shadowed figure—taller, broad-shouldered, with bare feet and ash along his arms—
sinks to the floor,
slowly, like the world forgot to hold him up.

The floor becomes water.
Not real water, not wet.
But the kind made of memories too heavy to carry.

He sinks deeper.
The frame softens.
Grainy.
Distorted.

Drowning…
but not fighting.
Only… letting go.

11. (I'm staring death in the eyes)

Motion picture.
A cracked window.
Frost growing outward in sudden bursts, like veins of lightning.

Outside—
a vast forest of colorless trees,
and at the edge of it:
a figure.

Eyes like voids. A cloak like mist.
It does not approach.
It only watches.

And the man—
the one who came before Ydoc—
he looks back.

No fear.
Just tired understanding.
Not “why me?”
but “I know.”

12. (You were the rock that I needed)

Motion picture.
A shift in light.
We flash backward—flickering frame by frame—
to laughter.

Hands gripping a heavy boulder near a creek.
A younger figure hoisting himself upward, slipping, laughing.
Behind him, a steady hand.
Holding him steady.

Not a lover.
Not a brother.
Not a name.

Just someone who held him when no one else would.
The rock that never left,
even as the river beneath roared on.

13. (You were the tree I would climb)

Motion picture.
Soft wind.
Bare feet in the grass.

And there—
an enormous crooked tree, arms outstretched like it’s welcoming home a runaway child.

The man from before runs and leaps, gripping the bark.
He climbs wildly—
hands scraped, knees scuffed,
but a smile so wide it hurts.

From above, he looks out.
The Divide stretches far and wild.
The sky hums with twin moons.

And somewhere, below him—
a small voice calls up:

“Don’t fall.”

He laughs.
And reaches a hand down.

A life was ending…
But it was not empty.

14. (Now I'm a passing thought)

The chair by the door is empty now.
Dust swirls in the sunbeam like little ghosts,
dancing where once laughter used to rest.

The door creaks open.
Not because someone opens it—
but because the house itself remembers.

And through it:
shoes that are not ours
step backward into the world.
We are becoming a memory.

15. (And I'll try to survive)

Footsteps press into fresh snow.
The camera pans outward, retracing its journey.
The sky is pale lavender.
The trees begin to blur.

The cabin stays behind.
Small.
Lit.
Enduring.

Inside, the light flickers,
trying so hard
not to go out.

Trying so hard
to remain.

16. (And I will write what I’ve seen)

A book lies open on a windowsill.
The pages breathe with ink and dust.

Not typed. Not printed.
Written by hand.

Sketches of laughter.
Torn corners of sorrow.
A pressed flower.
A spot where a tear had dried.

Each image we saw—
every moment—
captured in ink and color and love.

This was his legacy.
His memory.
His truth.

17. (Will you read what I write?)

And there—
a final page.

A question.
Not loud. Not demanding.

Just…
hopeful.

"Will you read what I write?"

The snow falls gently across the final frame.
The book slowly closes, as if on its own.

And a voice—trembling, boyish, sincere—
calls out one last time into the great open sky:

“My endless love…”
(to the cabin)
“My endless love.”
(to Froosta’s face in the distance, barely visible)
“My endless love!”
(to the forest, the sky, the whole Divide)
“MY ENDLESS LOVE…!”

(echo… echo… echo…)

And then—
silence.

No credits.
Just snowfall.
And the memory of a boy,
still flickering softly
in the light of the house in the woods.

We may forget his name…
But his story…
will remember us.
.......
............

The last note of the piano fades like breath on a windowpane—
soft, slow, unseen by most… but Ydoc saw it.
Felt it.
Lived it.

And now—

All that remains is the warmth.

Ydoc’s breath trembles.
His blackened eyes glisten, like wells of still ink—crying without shame.
The verse lingers on his lips, a memory in the shape of sound.

His chest aches—
not from sorrow—
but from heat.

A new kind of warmth.

He looks down…

And there—
wrapped around him like a scarf of loyalty and longing—
is Froosta.
Buried in the hug like he was protecting something sacred.
His arms clutch Ydoc with strength no one would expect of a creature so small,
and his tail winds tight like a ribbon in the snow.
He’s shaking—just a little. Not from fear.

From hope.

Ydoc barely feels his own legs.
His hands twitch, uncertain where to go.
But Froosta breathes softly, eyes closed, nose pressed into Ydoc’s chest—
as if listening.
Not to a heartbeat.

To the story.
To Ydoc.

No words now.
Not yet.

Because Ydoc returned.
And Froosta stayed.

A boy who always listens.
And a song that still has more pages left.


But the question is, will you be there to hear the rest of the song?