The Writer watches over us all. That's what my mother had told me. It was what her mother always told her. No one has ever met the Writer, but we know they are watching over us.

Whenever something bad happened, whenever someone disappeared into the darkness of the forest and never came back, my mother would pull me close, stroking my hair as she whispered how I would always be safe. I believed her. The Writer watches over us all. I will always be safe, no matter what. The Writer loves me, they will protect me.

As the years passed, more people disappeared. It was something I never understood, the people who spirited away into the night. My mother told me that they had gone to the Forest. No one spoke of them again after that. It was one of the unspoken rules of society. When someone disappears, we treat it as though they never existed at all. But the Writer has them, my mother had whispered to me once. They are safe.

---

Snow blows wildly, a curtain of white that obscures the outside world. But I don't need to see anything to know what's out there. Nothing.

No one dares to go out at night anymore, or the Timekeepers would get them. Those monsters, the servants of the Writer. Creatures with mangled skin and hateful eyes. Something no one would wish to meet face to face. They say that if you look into their eyes for too long, you'll feel a lifetime of fear and anguish in a moment. You will never be the same again.

I had questioned the existence of the Timekeepers, once upon a time. Why did the Writer, who loved us all so much, have servants that caused nothing but fear and pain?

But asking questions is not something one does.

Was that the glint of a Timekeeper's eyes outside? I shudder, snapping the curtains shut.

It's getting late, I was just seeing things. It was just a figment of my tired mind, thinking up dark things to scare me awake.

"I think it's time for me to sleep now," I call out to the silent house as I run away to the safety of my bed.

---

My dreams come every night, the same thing each time. I am standing in front of the forest by my home, staring into the shadows. I strain my eyes, but I cannot see anything past the first branches.

The darkness is terrifying. So many people have disappeared into the forest in the dead of the night, then seemed to disappear from everyone's minds. I should run back to my home now, lock my doors and cover the windows before it gets dark and the Timekeepers have free reign. But even as I think this, my legs move forward, crushing the pristine snow below me.

Back. I have to go back. Yet I continue closer, drawn in by the sinister darkness.

Stop. Yet I continue, my limbs ignoring my mind, into the forest. It feels colder the moment I enter, a cold that settles into my very bones and encases them in ice. I can feel eyes on me, hateful eyes waiting for the best moment to strike.

The Writer is here, I tell myself. The Writer loves me. The Writer will keep me safe. But as that last word enters my mind, so does another voice, one not unlike my own, but with a tone colder than the snow beneath me.

How do you know this? It asks me. How do you know that they are not the one who brought you to this place? Perhaps they bore of you now. Perhaps they wish to dispose of you.

I want to answer. I want to tell them that no, that isn't true. My mother always told me that the Writer cared. They would never do such a cruel thing. Yet I continue in with no choice of my own, the darkness wrapping all around me. There is no more light now. The branches of the trees are invisible knives that tear at my arms, leaving stinging cuts.

I don't know what is at the end of my journey. I don't know when my journey will end.

Perhaps I will continue walking until my legs froze completely, until I can't feel them at all and just became a statue in the darkness, never seen by friends and family again. Is that what became of those who disappeared? Such a cruel end.

But I never find out the ending. Eventually, the darkness fades to nothing, and I find myself waking up in my own room, still shivering from the cold.

---

I've a sense of cold trepidation and restlessness. It's a strange feeling, as I have never been one to wish to leave the safety of my walls, but this morning I do. The silence of my home is unbearable, as the words from my dream last night echo in my head. How I want to go out and---and what? Listen to more silence? Not many people wish to be out. Nothing is there, the only sound would be the wind forcing its way past the trees. Though that would perhaps be better than sitting here, listening to the sound of the clock, seeming to grow louder with each tick.

I am oddly relieved when there's a knock on the door. Another thing that is odd. No one comes to my door.

The person on the other side is not someone I know, though he seems mildly familiar in the way he begins with a million words, from a 'how are you' to a concerned comment about the pallor of my skin, as though people in the winter often have a healthy glow to their complexion. He never pauses for me to speak, and so I instead wait for him to get to his point, my arms crossed over my chest. It seems to be days before he finally slows his speech. He twists the hem of his jacket as he begins to speak again. "I'm afraid that you'll have to leave this place."

What? I stare at him, disbelieving. What sort of person does he think he is, telling me to leave? This is my home. Shouldn't I be the one telling him to leave? However, I don't tell him this, only staring at him until he clears his throat and continues.

"Your house is too close to the forest, you see. The forest has been growing at a steady rate. It would be improper to just leave you here, wouldn't it? I'll give you a few minutes to collect what you'd like." The boy says this with a friendly smile, as though he thinks it's easy to uproot your entire life and move it to another place.

I simply stare at him for a few moments before turning back and walking away. There isn't any point in arguing, is there? I have never been one to fight.

All I need is the book my mother had given me once, long ago. I carry that with me to the door, where he still stands. A wide smile appears on his face once more when he sees me. Such a cheerful boy. I've never understood people who could smile so much. There is nothing to smile for—is there? I can never seem to find a reason.

"Ah, watch your step. The roads are awful slippery this time of year." He holds his hand out to me, that same smile still plastered on his face. I walk past him.

I haven't been out in a long time—I can't remember if I've ever been out at all. The icy wind dries my eyes and freezes my face, makes my clothes flap wildly around me. The cold stings me, like an electric shock.

For a moment, I only stare at the ground, determined not to fall into the deep snow. But eventually, I get my bearings, and I look up.

The forest surrounds me, the branches reaching up like skeletal hands, clacking together like bones. The forest. The trees.

I am standing in front of the forest by my home, staring into the shadows.

The Writer will keep me safe.

How do I know that?

I don't realize that I've changed my course until I hear the boy cry out. "Just stay on the path. You won't be safe that close to the forest!"

With a start, I see where I am. Mere meters from the forest, yet I still can't see anything besides darkness. I take another step. I can hear him yell from the safety of the path, but I continue. This, I tell myself, isn't involuntary like in my dreams. I am controlling myself. I want to see the forest.

I step into the forest.

His cries seem to cut away to nothing. Everything seems to. Even the crunching of snow beneath my feet seems to have disappeared, and the trees. No matter where I reach, there is nothing but emptiness. All I feel is the cold, which seems to sink into my bones and freeze me from the inside—

There was a sound just now. A raspy hiss. Is that the glow of a Timekeeper's eyes? I spin around. I want to leave. But instead of seeing the path, there's nothing there. Just darkness.

Fear grips my heart and refuses to let it go. Squeezing my heart and my lungs. I feel like I'm suffocating as I move back to where the path should be. How far have I walked? It should be here. There should be light.

Another sound. It must be just a product of my imagination. Someone had told me once that my imagination was too large for my own good. Please, please let it be my imagination. It is just the wind, blowing at the trees, the non-existent trees. My mind just twisted the sound because of my fears. The bony thing moving up my arm is simply a branch. Not the rotting hand of a Timekeeper.

Even I can't believe that. My heart pounds, and I grip my book in my hands like it's a lifesaver. I can see glints of light in the darkness. The eyes. I close my own, close them as tightly as I can until they hurt. But I can feel it, reaching out for me. I can hear its guttural sounds. I can smell it, the smell of rot and blood permeating the air.

I want to open my eyes. Just for a moment, open my eyes and see the thing in front of me... I do. The creature has shocking blue eyes that seem less hate-filled and more curious. I reach out to it. It has hair, pulled up into a messy bun on top of their head. Surely the monster can feel me, yet it doesn't make a move to attack. It has hair like my mother. My mother... I haven't seen her in a long time, I suddenly realize in a jolt. Why haven't I seen her in so long?

She's been gone for years. The realization seems to come from a different voice, distant like the person was speaking from miles away. She's been gone for years. She disappeared into the forest one night. They said it was because we lived too close to the forest, and I needed to leave. I never did.

The eyes were not unlike hers either. Bright blue, seeming more vivid due to the paleness of her skin and the darkness of her hair. Not unlike mine.

"Are you---" My voice cracks, whether from hope or fear, I don't know. I try again. "Were you human?" It was a stupid question. After I finish speaking, the Timekeeper turns and runs, its feet scraping the ground. Of course not. Despite what disappointment I have for such an outcome, I resume my walking. I need to find a way out of the forest. I think of that strange Timekeeper as I walk.

Timekeepers have very human eyes. People only ever focused on their skeletal figures, their claws, and their fangs. No one dared to meet their eyes. The Timekeeper's eyes looked like they had been taken right from my mother and sewn into the new creature.

I remember a time, though it seems so distant, when everyone went out at night, to try and see the first star that came out. There must have only been one or two Timekeepers then. They kept away from large groups, so no one was ever afraid. Now we are, as our population shrink and theirs seem to grow. But how is it that they managed to grow so quickly?

I shudder, though I have long been used to the bone-chilling cold. What if they are the people? What if the Writer did this, what if they are not the good person my mother claimed them to be...?

Another sound. The Timekeepers. They're louder, there are more of them. I start to walk faster, clutching my book to my chest.

They're louder now. They're closer.

I run, for a moment.

Then I trip. The trees, the trees choose now to appear.

I can feel the snow again, the cold soaking through my clothes.

I can hear the Timekeepers moving.

I get up, cradle my cold, snow-covered book in my arms. Start running again.

It's harder to run when I'm frozen. It almost hurts. But I keep going.

I can feel branches scraping my skin---or are they the hands of a Timekeeper, trying their best to catch hold of me? I take a ragged breath, willing my shaking hands to keep hold of my book, my only possession.

I trip, on something. I can feel something grab ahold of me. The skeletal hands, like branches, picking me up and pushing me down at the same time. They're loud, like they were arguing.

I'm cold.

I can't get up.

I close my eyes.

How much nicer it is, when I can pretend I'm safe in my bed...

My mother made me the book when I was younger. Hundreds of blank pages, bound together with strings, fabric, and paper. Every night, she filled it with a story, and of things she found for me. When she ran out of pages, she took it apart and added more. My most prized possession, I kept it after she disappeared, flipped through the pages until they were limp and worn, and even more after that.

It must be soaked now. All my mother's work, ruined. But I couldn't even feel that. I couldn't feel anything. Perhaps I am completely frozen now.

There is nothing. Eventually, everything faded...

And I open my eyes. Light drifts into my room through the smallest crack between my curtains.

Wait, lights? Curtains? Room? I shoot up, my blanket falling down into my lap. It's my room, but not the one I have grown used to over the years. It's my room as a child, with pale yellow walls and dolls strewn across the floor. I look around at this familiar, yet strange sight, until my eyes fall on the book. My mother's book, set on my bedside table as it always had been. Something familiar, something normal.

I grab it, flipping through the pages, filled with flowers and my mother's delicate lettering. But it isn't the same. The pages are warped from water. The snow from yesterday—

Yesterday? It seems a distant memory.

Everything is hazy...

"Sweetheart, I can tell you're up. Now come down, I've made your favourite breakfast, and we're going down to the village later! You can go see your friends."

It's my mother—no. That's not my mother. My mother is gone, she's been for years. That's not my mother. It's not.

I shudder, and flip through the book quicker, until something falls out. A piece of paper?

I pick it up. Unfold it.

In writing different from my mother's, it has my name and a simple sentence.

You can't escape until I let you.