Valley of Trolls

The Valley No Human Sees

Far beyond the last hiking trail, past the forests where maps grow uncertain and the wind forgets its way, there is a hidden valley. No road leads there. No sign points the way. It is a place the world has quietly agreed not to notice.

This is where the trolls live.

They are enormous—taller than the tallest trees at the valley’s edge, with skin like weathered stone and moss-soft hair that changes with the seasons. In spring, their hair blooms with tiny white flowers. In autumn, it turns a deep, rust-colored red. Their laughter echoes like distant thunder, but in the valley, it is the most comforting sound there is.

The trolls are happy creatures.

They wake with the sun and stretch their long arms toward the sky, greeting the day as if it were an old friend. Families gather by the river that winds through the valley, sharing breakfast—fresh berries the size of pumpkins, sweet roots pulled gently from the earth, and honey gathered carefully so the bees are never disturbed.

Young trolls play games that shake the ground just a little, their footsteps sending tiny ripples through the soil. They chase each other between enormous stones, build towering stacks of smooth rocks, and tell stories about clouds that look like dragons or ships or sometimes, if you squint just right, humans.

Because trolls do know about humans.

Every troll child is taught, from the time they can understand words, about the world beyond the valley.

“Humans are not like us,” the elders say gently, their voices low and steady. “They are smaller, quicker, and often afraid.”

The children always ask the same question.

“Afraid of what?”

The elders glance at one another before answering.

“Of us.”

This always confuses the young ones. They look at their big, clumsy hands and their soft, mossy hair. They think of the way their families hug—carefully, so carefully—and how they sing at night, deep and rumbling, like the earth itself is humming.

“But we’re not scary,” a child might say.

“No,” an elder agrees, with a kind smile. “We are not.”

And yet, the stories are clear.

Long ago, a few trolls wandered too close to the edges of the human world. They were curious, just like children are now. They wanted to see the lights that flickered in the distance, to hear the strange music carried on the wind.

What they found instead were frightened faces, loud noises, and sharp things thrown in panic.

Some humans ran. Others shouted. A few were mean in ways that trolls still struggle to understand.

And so, the rule was made.

“Stay in the valley,” the elders teach. “Stay where you are safe. Not all humans are cruel, but some are very, very scared—and scared creatures can be dangerous.”

The children listen. They nod. They promise.

Still, sometimes, they wonder.

On quiet evenings, when the sky fades into deep blue and the first stars begin to appear, the youngest trolls climb to the highest rocks and look toward the faraway world. They imagine what humans might be like when they are not afraid.

“Do you think they have families like us?” one might ask.

“I think so,” another replies.

“Do you think they laugh?”

A pause.

“I hope so.”

Back in the heart of the valley, the grown trolls gather together. They share stories, pass down songs older than mountains, and keep watch—not out of fear, but out of love.

Because above all else, trolls take care of one another.

They know who they are, even if the outside world does not.

They are not monsters.

They are not something to fear.

They are a family—large, loud, gentle, and hidden away in a place where they can simply be trolls.

And in the valley no human sees, that is more than enough.

~

Too Close to the Edge

His name was Brum.

He was not the biggest troll in the valley, nor the strongest, nor even the loudest—but he was, without question, the most curious.

Brum asked questions about everything.

Why did the river always bend at the same place? Why did some stars shine brighter than others? Why did the wind sometimes smell like smoke and metal and something… unfamiliar?

And most of all—what were humans really like?

“Stay in the valley,” his mother would remind him, gently brushing a twig from his mossy hair. “Curiosity is a fine thing, Brum, but only when it keeps you safe.”

“I know,” Brum would say.

And he meant it.

Mostly.

One evening, just as the sky turned the soft purple of ending daylight, Brum climbed higher than he ever had before. Higher than the berry fields. Higher than the singing stones. Higher, even, than the tallest watching rock where the elders sometimes stood.

He told himself he was just looking.

Just looking.

But the air changed the higher he went. It grew thinner, sharper. The smells were different too—less green, less alive. And there it was again.

That strange scent.

Smoke.

Brum’s heart thumped, slow and heavy like distant drums. He knew what that meant.

Humans.

He should have turned back.

He even took one step down the slope.

But then—

A flicker of light.

Not fire like the valley fires, warm and dancing. This light was steadier. Brighter. It glowed in a way that didn’t seem to breathe.

Brum crouched low behind a cluster of rocks, his enormous body trying very hard to be small. Slowly, carefully, he peeked over the edge of the ridge.

And he saw them.

Tiny figures, moving quickly. Their voices carried faintly on the wind—sharp, fast, and full of energy. They had built strange shapes from wood and metal, and the glowing lights hung above them like captured stars.

Brum stared.

“They’re… little,” he whispered to himself.

Not frightening.

Not monstrous.

Just small.

One of the humans laughed—a bright, quick sound, nothing like the deep rumble of troll laughter. Another pointed at something, speaking in excited bursts. They moved so easily, so lightly, as if the ground barely noticed them.

Brum leaned forward.

Just a little closer.

A rock shifted beneath his hand.

It was a tiny sound by troll standards.

But down below, everything changed.

The laughter stopped.

Heads turned.

One human pointed—this time not in excitement, but in alarm.

“Did you hear that?”

Their voices sharpened. Quick movements. Someone grabbed a light and shone it toward the ridge.

The beam cut through the dimness, sweeping across the rocks—

And for one brief, frozen moment, it touched Brum’s face.

His wide eyes.

His moss-covered hair.

His enormous, unmistakable shape.

Silence.

Then—

A shout.

“Something’s up there!”

The humans scrambled. Some stepped back. Others reached for long, stick-like objects. Their movements were no longer curious—they were afraid.

Very afraid.

And just like the elders had said, fear made them loud.

And sharp.

And dangerous.

Brum’s chest tightened. He hadn’t meant to scare them. He hadn’t meant to be seen at all.

“I’m not scary,” he whispered, though his voice trembled like rolling thunder.

But it didn’t matter.

He could see it now—the way they looked at him.

Not with curiosity.

Not with wonder.

But with fear.

Brum didn’t wait any longer.

He turned and ran.

Each step shook the hillside as he rushed back down, back toward the safety of the valley, his thoughts racing faster than his feet.

They weren’t mean, he realized.

Not really.

Just… terrified.

By the time he reached the familiar trees and the soft, mossy ground of home, the sounds of the human world had faded completely.

Only the valley remained.

Warm.

Safe.

Understanding.

Brum slowed to a stop, his breathing heavy, his heart still pounding. In the distance, he could hear his family—laughing, calling to one another, just as they always did.

For the first time, Brum understood.

The elders hadn’t been warning them about humans because humans were monsters.

They had been warning them because fear can turn anyone into something they are not.

Even the small.

Even the curious.

Even the kind.

Brum looked back once, toward the hidden edge of the world.

Then he turned away.

And this time, he didn’t wonder what lay beyond.

He already knew enough.

~

The One Who Didn’t Run

Her name was Elin Carter, and she was the only one who didn’t run right away.

When the light struck the ridge and revealed that enormous face—stone-gray, moss-framed, eyes wide with something that didn’t look like anger at all—everyone else reacted instantly.

Shouting.

Grabbing equipment.

Backing away.

But Elin froze.

Because what she saw didn’t match the stories.

Trolls, according to everything she had ever heard, were supposed to be snarling, wild, and dangerous. Creatures that lurked and hunted and destroyed.

But that wasn’t what she saw.

She saw something startled.

Something unsure.

Something that looked… afraid.

“Did you see it?!” someone yelled beside her.

“Yes,” Elin said quietly, though her voice barely carried.

“What was that thing?!”

No one waited for an answer. The group was already moving, retreating toward their vehicles, lights swinging wildly, voices overlapping in sharp bursts of panic.

“It’s not safe out here—let’s go, let’s go!”

Elin took one last look at the ridge.

It was empty now.

Whatever had been there—whoever had been there—was gone.

But the image stayed with her.

Those eyes.

Not threatening.

Not cruel.

Just… surprised.

Back at camp, the noise didn’t settle for a long time. Everyone talked at once, each version of the story growing a little bigger, a little sharper, a little more frightening with every retelling.

“It was huge.”

“It was watching us.”

“It could’ve come down here if it wanted.”

Elin sat quietly by the edge of the light, listening.

Finally, someone turned to her.

“You saw it too, right? Up close?”

She hesitated.

“Yes,” she said.

“And?”

All eyes were on her now.

Elin searched for the right word.

“It didn’t look dangerous.”

A pause.

Then a scoff.

“Everything looks dangerous at that size.”

“No,” Elin said, more firmly this time. “I mean—it didn’t act dangerous.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It didn’t come closer. It didn’t make any move toward us.” She frowned slightly, thinking it through. “It looked like it didn’t want to be seen.”

That earned her a few uneasy looks.

“That’s not better,” someone muttered.

But Elin wasn’t so sure.

That night, long after the others had gone to sleep, she sat awake, staring out toward the dark shape of the ridge.

The forest was quiet again. Peaceful, even.

If something truly monstrous lived out there, she thought, wouldn’t the world feel different?

Wouldn’t the air carry it somehow?

Instead, everything felt… still.

Normal.

Alive.

Elin pulled her jacket tighter around her and leaned back against her pack, her thoughts drifting.

“What if we’re wrong?” she murmured to herself.

The idea felt strange.

Uncomfortable.

But also impossible to ignore.

Because fear, she realized, had filled in all the gaps in their understanding. It had taken something unknown and turned it into something terrible—without ever stopping to ask if it was true.

She looked up at the stars.

Somewhere beyond the ridge, something just as alive as she was had looked back at her—and run.

Not chased.

Not attacked.

Run.

Elin let out a slow breath.

“Maybe,” she said softly, “it was afraid of us.”

The thought settled into the quiet night, as steady and undeniable as the stars overhead.

And for the first time, the story she had always believed about trolls began to change.

~

The Quiet Meeting

For three nights, Elin returned to the ridge.

She didn’t tell the others.

During the day, she nodded along as they spoke about leaving early, about reporting what they had seen, about never coming this far out again. But each evening, as the light faded and the forest softened into shadow, she slipped away.

Alone.

She told herself she was just observing.

Just confirming what she had seen.

But deep down, she knew she was hoping.

On the third night, she brought something with her.

Not a weapon.

Not a light.

Just a small bundle wrapped in cloth.

Elin climbed slowly, carefully placing each step, making sure the stones didn’t shift beneath her boots. When she reached the ridge, she stopped well before the edge.

Her heart was already beating faster.

She swallowed.

“I know you’re there,” she said, her voice steady but quiet. “Or… I think you are.”

The wind moved gently through the trees below, carrying her words into the valley.

For a long moment, nothing happened.

Elin let out a small breath and crouched down. She placed the bundle on the ground and unwrapped it—a collection of things she had gathered from camp.

A piece of bread.

A small tin cup.

A bright red scarf.

Carefully, she set them in a neat line, then took several steps back.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” she said.

The words felt strange, spoken into the open air.

“I just… want to understand.”

Silence answered her.

But it wasn’t empty.

Something was listening.

Brum had been there since before she arrived.

Hidden low behind the ridge, barely daring to breathe, he had watched her climb.

Alone.

That alone made no sense to him.

Humans stayed in groups. They were loud, fast, always moving together like flocks of startled birds.

But not this one.

She moved slowly.

Carefully.

Like she didn’t want to scare anything.

Brum had almost left.

Every lesson he had ever been taught told him to turn back, to return to the valley, to forget the edge entirely.

But then she spoke.

And her voice—

It wasn’t sharp.

It wasn’t afraid.

It was… gentle.

Brum inched closer, his massive form moving with surprising quiet as he lowered himself behind the rocks.

Then he saw what she had left.

Objects, small and strange, laid out in a row.

An offering?

A trap?

He didn’t know.

The wind shifted.

The human’s scent reached him again—smoke and fabric and something warm, something alive.

She stepped back even farther now, her hands open at her sides.

Waiting.

Brum’s thoughts tumbled over one another.

She isn’t like the others.

But she’s still human.

What if it’s a trick?

What if it isn’t?

Slowly—so slowly it almost didn’t feel like moving—Brum lifted his head above the ridge.

The human didn’t move.

Didn’t shout.

Didn’t run.

She saw him.

He could tell.

Her breath caught, just for a moment—but she stayed where she was.

“Hi,” she said softly.

Brum froze.

No one had ever spoken to him like that before.

Not like he was something to fear.

Not like he was something to chase away.

Just… spoken to.

“I’m Elin,” she added, her voice barely louder than the wind.

Brum blinked.

His name sat heavy in his chest, unspoken. Trolls did not share their names with the outside world.

Another rule.

Another line not to cross.

But he didn’t leave.

And that, on its own, was already something new.

Elin glanced toward the small arrangement she had left behind.

“I brought those for you,” she said. “You don’t have to take them.”

A pause.

“I just thought… maybe you’d like something that wasn’t from here.”

Brum’s gaze shifted to the objects.

Bright.

Unfamiliar.

Harmless, at least from what he could tell.

He looked back at her.

She hadn’t moved closer.

Hadn’t tried to force anything.

She was giving him the choice.

Brum slowly, cautiously, reached one enormous hand over the ridge.

Elin held her breath—but she did not step back.

His fingers, thick and stone-rough, hovered over the items before gently—so gently—picking up the red scarf.

It looked impossibly small in his grasp.

He turned it over, studying it, feeling its softness.

Something in his chest loosened.

Elin smiled.

Not wide.

Not sudden.

Just enough to be seen.

And in that quiet space between them—no longer entirely divided by fear, but not yet free of it either—something new began.

Not trust.

Not yet.

But the first, careful step toward it.

~

Small Offerings

After that night, neither of them stayed away.

They did not plan it—not in any spoken way—but somehow, they both returned to the ridge as if pulled by the same quiet thread.

Elin came just after sunset.

Brum arrived just before.

At first, they kept their distance.

Elin would sit on a flat stone, her legs tucked close, speaking softly about small things—the weather, the way the trees sounded different at night, the strange habits of the other humans in her group. She didn’t expect answers. She simply filled the silence with something gentle.

Brum listened.

He learned the shape of her voice, the rhythm of it. Humans spoke quickly, but Elin slowed her words, as if she understood that some things needed space to be heard.

In return, Brum brought things.

Not at first.

At first, he only watched, clutching the red scarf she had given him, running its soft fabric between his fingers when he thought too hard.

But on the fourth night, he placed something at the edge of the ridge before she arrived.

A stone.

Not just any stone.

It was smooth and pale, with a faint spiral pattern that shimmered when the light caught it just right. In the valley, such stones were rare. Troll children sometimes searched for years to find one.

When Elin climbed up and saw it, she stopped.

“Oh,” she breathed, kneeling beside it.

She looked up slowly—and there he was.

Watching.

Waiting.

“Is this… for me?”

Brum didn’t move, but something in his posture shifted. A quiet yes.

Elin picked up the stone carefully, as if it might break.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

And Brum felt, for the first time, something close to pride.

They began to understand each other in pieces.

Elin learned that sudden movements made Brum tense, so she moved slowly, always letting him see what she was doing. She noticed how he tilted his head when she spoke, how he seemed to follow not just her words but her tone.

So she taught him, without calling it teaching.

She would point to things.

“This is a cup.”

“This is bread.”

“Elin,” she would say, touching her chest.

Then, gently, she would gesture toward him.

He hesitated the first time.

The rule echoed in his mind.

Trolls do not share their names with humans.

But this human was different.

This human had given, not taken.

Had stayed, not chased.

Brum placed a hand against his chest.

“…Brum,” he said, his voice low and careful, like distant thunder trying not to roll.

Elin’s face lit with quiet understanding.

“Brum,” she repeated.

She said it right.

Not perfectly—but close enough to matter.

Each night, they grew a little braver.

Elin moved a step closer.

Brum stayed a moment longer.

They never touched.

Not yet.

But the space between them shrank, inch by inch, filled with exchanged objects and shared silence.

Elin brought a small mirror one evening. Brum startled when he saw his own reflection, pulling back before leaning in again, fascinated.

Another time, she brought a simple tune, humming it softly into the evening air. Brum listened, then answered in his own way—a low, steady sound that vibrated through the ground beneath her.

They both laughed at that.

Different sounds.

Same meaning.

But always, they were careful.

Elin made sure no one followed her. She chose quiet paths, watched for movement, and kept her secret close.

Brum told no one in the valley. Not his mother. Not the elders. Not even the other young trolls who would have buzzed with questions and worry.

Some truths, he felt, were too fragile to share too soon.

Still, the world beyond their meetings continued to move.

Voices carried from the human camp—plans, concerns, the restless energy of people who had seen something they could not explain.

And in the valley, the elders had begun to notice something too.

Brum was distracted.

Quieter.

Often missing when the evening songs began.

Nothing had been said yet.

But questions were forming.

One night, as the stars stretched wide across the sky, Elin sat closer than ever before—just a few long steps from where Brum rested near the ridge.

She placed her hand on the ground between them.

After a moment, Brum mirrored her, lowering his massive hand to the same patch of earth.

Not touching.

But close enough that the space between their fingers felt… smaller than it should have.

Elin looked at him.

Brum looked at her.

Neither spoke.

Because for the first time, they didn’t need to.

And in that quiet, hidden place between two worlds, something impossible continued to grow—

Unseen.

Unspoken.

And, for now,

still safe.

~

The Space Between Fingers

The night it happened, the air felt different.

Not colder.

Not warmer.

Just… aware.

Elin noticed it first.

The forest was never truly silent, but tonight even the smallest sounds seemed to carry farther—the rustle of leaves, the shift of stone beneath her boots, the steady rhythm of her own breathing.

She climbed the ridge anyway.

Of course she did.

Brum was already there.

He had been arriving earlier each night now, as if the waiting itself had become part of the ritual. The red scarf was draped loosely around one wrist, its bright color softened from being handled so often.

When he saw her, he straightened slightly.

A small movement, but one that meant something.

You came back.

“I always do,” Elin said softly, as if she had heard the thought.

She stepped closer than she ever had before.

Not by accident this time.

On purpose.

Brum didn’t retreat.

But he didn’t move forward either.

They stayed like that for a long moment—balanced on the edge of something new.

“I’ve been thinking,” Elin said, her voice quieter than usual. “About fear.”

Brum tilted his head.

“It feels big,” she continued, searching for the right words. “But sometimes… it’s just the space between not knowing and understanding.”

She looked down at the ground between them.

Then, slowly, she knelt.

Her hand rested against the earth once more, fingers spread slightly, steady.

An invitation.

Brum watched carefully.

He had learned her patterns now. This meant something.

This always meant something.

His own hand lowered, massive and deliberate, until it hovered just above hers.

He could feel the warmth of her, even without touching.

So small, he thought.

So breakable.

The old warnings echoed faintly in his mind.

Be careful.

Stay back.

Protect the valley.

But there was another feeling now, just as strong.

Trust.

Carefully—so carefully it almost hurt—Brum lowered one finger.

It brushed against the tip of Elin’s smallest finger.

She inhaled sharply.

Not in fear.

Just… in feeling.

The contact was light.

Barely there.

But it was real.

Elin didn’t pull away.

Instead, she shifted her hand just slightly, letting her fingers rest more fully against the side of his.

His skin was cool and rough, like stone warmed by the sun earlier in the day.

“Hi, Brum,” she whispered again, though she had said it many times before.

This time, it meant something new.

Brum made a soft sound, deep in his chest—not quite a word, but not just a sound either.

They stayed like that, connected by the smallest possible touch, as if anything more might break whatever fragile bridge had formed between them.

And then—

A sound.

Sharp.

Close.

Not from the valley.

Not from Elin.

Both of them froze.

Voices.

Human voices.

“—swear I saw someone come this way.”

“Up the ridge?”

“Yeah. Light was moving.”

Elin’s heart dropped.

Too close.

Far too close.

She pulled her hand back—not suddenly, but quickly enough to matter—and looked up at Brum, her eyes wide now.

“Someone followed me,” she whispered.

Brum had already shifted, his body lowering instinctively behind the ridge, his form blending with the rocks and shadow.

The connection between them was gone.

But the feeling of it lingered.

Lights flickered below.

Moving.

Searching.

“They can’t see you,” Elin said, more to herself than to him. “They can’t—”

A beam of light swept higher up the slope.

Brum stilled completely.

Even his breathing seemed to stop.

Elin stood, forcing herself to stay calm, stepping slightly away from where he hid.

If they saw anything, she realized, it had to be just her.

“Hello?” a voice called. “Elin? That you?”

She swallowed.

“Yes!” she called back, steadying her tone. “I—I just came up for some air.”

The lights paused.

Shifted.

Focused on her now.

“You shouldn’t be up there alone,” someone said, their voice closer than before.

“I’m fine,” Elin replied. “Really. I’ll come down.”

She took one last glance toward the ridge.

She couldn’t see him.

But she knew he was there.

Waiting.

Hidden.

Safe—at least for now.

“I’m coming,” she called again.

Then, quietly, barely more than a breath:

“Tomorrow.”

She turned and began her descent.

The voices met her partway, their concern quickly turning into gentle scolding, their attention fully on her.

Behind them, above them, unseen—

Brum remained.

Still.

Silent.

His hand slowly curled inward, as if holding onto something that was no longer there.

The space between worlds had closed again.

But not completely.

Not anymore.

Because now, both sides knew—

It could be crossed.

~

Words Without Language

The next night felt heavier.

Not because they stayed away—but because they both came back knowing they probably shouldn’t.

Elin climbed more carefully than ever, pausing often, listening for any sign she wasn’t alone. Twice, she thought she heard movement behind her and nearly turned back.

But she didn’t.

At the ridge, Brum was waiting—but farther back this time, his massive form half-hidden in shadow.

Cautious.

Watching.

When he saw her, he didn’t move forward right away.

Neither did she.

“I almost didn’t come,” Elin admitted softly.

Brum tilted his head, the motion slower than usual.

“I think someone followed me yesterday,” she continued. “They didn’t see you. But… they might start wondering.”

Brum understood pieces now. Not every word—but enough.

Follow.

See.

Danger.

His shoulders lowered slightly, a quiet signal of concern.

Elin took a small step closer.

“I don’t want to stop,” she said.

That part, somehow, needed no translation.

Brum shifted forward.

Just a little.

They sat closer than before, the space between them no longer wide, but still careful.

Elin had brought something new.

Not an object.

An idea.

She placed her hand against her chest.

“Friend,” she said.

Then she pointed gently toward Brum.

“Friend.”

Brum watched her closely.

Friend.

A new word.

A new shape of meaning.

He touched his own chest, slower this time.

“…Friend,” he repeated, the word deep and uneven, but clear.

Elin smiled.

“Yes.”

She picked up a small stick and drew in the dirt between them.

Two simple shapes.

One large.

One small.

Side by side.

She pointed.

“Friend.”

Brum leaned closer, fascinated. His large finger traced the shapes—not touching hers, but near enough to follow.

Then he added something.

A curved line connecting the two shapes.

Elin’s breath caught slightly.

“Yes,” she said, softer now. “Connected.”

They built their understanding piece by piece.

Elin placed her hand gently over her heart again.

“Kindness,” she said.

Then she reached out—not quite touching him this time—but leaving her hand open in the space between them.

“Kindness is… gentle.”

She moved slowly. Carefully.

“Not hurting.”

Brum watched, then nodded once.

He understood that.

He had always understood that.

He lowered his hand and, with surprising delicacy, moved a small stone out of her path so she could shift closer without stumbling.

Elin noticed.

She smiled.

“That’s kindness,” she said.

Brum made a soft sound, thoughtful.

“Compassion,” Elin said next, hesitating slightly.

This one was harder.

She looked at him, then exaggerated a small shiver, wrapping her arms around herself as if cold.

Then she pointed to him.

“What would you do?”

Brum didn’t hesitate.

He reached behind him and gently pushed forward a thick patch of moss—soft, warm, something to sit on.

Elin’s face lit up.

“Yes,” she said. “That’s it.”

She placed a hand lightly against the moss.

“Compassion is… helping when someone feels bad.”

Brum nodded again, more certain this time.

“Love,” Elin said finally.

This word she didn’t act out right away.

Instead, she looked at him.

Really looked.

“It’s… big,” she said quietly.

She gestured toward the valley behind him.

“Family.”

Then to herself.

“People.”

Then, after a pause—

She placed her hand carefully against the ground between them.

Not reaching.

But not pulling back either.

“It’s caring… no matter what.”

Brum stilled.

The word settled differently than the others.

He understood family.

He understood care.

But this—

This felt like something stretching beyond what he had been taught.

Slowly, he moved his hand forward.

Not just a finger this time.

More.

Until it rested beside hers again, the space between them smaller than ever before.

“Love,” he said, the word low and steady, like something ancient learning a new name.

Elin nodded.

For a moment, everything felt still again.

Balanced.

Right.

Then—

A crack of a branch.

Closer than before.

Both of them turned instantly.

Voices followed.

More than one.

“…I told you, she’s been coming up here.”

“Then where is she now?”

Elin’s pulse jumped.

Too many.

Too close.

She looked at Brum.

He was already pulling back, retreating deeper into shadow, but slower this time—as if reluctant to fully disappear.

Elin stood, her mind racing.

Before she turned to go, she quickly knelt and drew one more thing into the dirt.

The two shapes again.

Connected.

She tapped it once.

Then looked at him.

Brum saw.

Understood.

He pressed his hand briefly over the drawing—careful not to erase it.

Then he pulled away.

Hidden once more.

Elin turned just as the lights broke over the ridge.

“There you are!” someone called. “You really need to stop doing this.”

“I know,” she said, catching her breath. “I just needed… space.”

But as she walked back down with them, her thoughts stayed behind.

At the ridge.

In the dirt.

In the space between two worlds that now held something far more dangerous than fear.

Understanding.

And something even harder to hide.

Care.

Thomas Dambo is a Danish sculpture artist. He is known for his installations of giant wooden sculptures made out of recycled materials called trolls