VIII. Returning

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I wake before dawn, the embers of the fire reduced to faint glows in the cool mountain air. The others are still asleep, their breath slow and steady. The night had given me no answers, but something had settled in me regardless—a quiet certainty that the road ahead did not lead forward, but back.

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I stand, stretching the stiffness from my limbs, and glance once more at Arun, who sits motionless, his features softened by the dim morning light. There is nothing more to say. Perhaps there never was. Without a word, I turn and begin the long walk back to New Hinton.

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The descent is slow, deliberate. I do not rush. The journey no longer feels like an obstacle, but a passage—one last opportunity to empty myself of expectation. The world stretches wide before me, golden light spilling over the hills as dawn breaks. Yet with each step, something in me withdraws further inward. 

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I retrace my steps through Eastborough and eventually find the warehouse that was a portal to a new world. I walk down to the platform and do the only thing I can do—wait for a train to come. 

I don’t have to wait long.

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As if expecting me, within minutes an empty train arrives. A map appears on the screen and shows the train is destined for New Hinton, or at least in that general direction.

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By the time I leave the train and reach the outskirts of New Hinton, the sun hangs high, filtering through the branches of the towering redwood forest that borders the town’s western parameter. I have no intention of returning to my parents’ house, nor of rejoining the quiet hum of daily life. Instead, I let my feet carry me toward the forest, drawn by something unspoken.

 

It’s deeper than I remember, vast and cathedral-like. The trunks of the redwoods rise impossibly high, their ancient forms untouched by time. The quiet is profound. 

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Here, at last, I stop.

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Nestled among the trees, half-hidden by undergrowth, stands an abandoned ranger station. Its wooden exterior has weathered to a muted gray, moss creeping along the edges where nature has begun to reclaim it. The windows are intact but dust-covered, the door half open, as though left ajar on purpose.

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I step inside. The air is still, undisturbed for years. Inside are old laminated maps hung on the wall, curled at the edges. Several kiosks of brochures sit at one end of the open space, while at the other end, a counter with drawers on the other side. Whoever had once kept watch over this land and welcomed visitors was gone, but their few traces remained—another reminder that something else had existed here before.

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This would become home. Not a return to the familiar, but a return to stillness.

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Days pass unnoticed. I wake with the sun and sit beneath the trees, my breath deep and slow, my mind dissolving into the quiet rhythms of the world around me. Thoughts come less frequently, like ripples fading into a still pond. Hunger, discomfort, even the passage of time become abstractions, distant echoes of concerns that no longer belong to me.

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At first, I maintain my body out of habit—rinsing myself in the stream, brushing dirt from my clothes, keeping my movements precise and deliberate. But gradually, these rituals fall away. My hands remain streaked with earth, my hair tangled from the wind. I did not notice when the filth first began to cling, nor when my skin, once warm and supple, took on a strange pallor, a dullness that did not quite resemble mere neglect.

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There are moments, when due to inactivity, a quiet unease stirs at the edges of my awareness. The body is weakening, and I sometimes catch my self trembling slightly when reaching for a cup, or standing up. But these thoughts, too, fade. It’s just the body, after all—a vehicle that I needn’t identify with. That much I learned early on. 

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And so, I remain, retreating further into silence, unaware that something fundamental is shifting, breaking down in ways I do not yet have the words to name. 

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Could this be my “dark night of the soul”? I wonder.

It was a local hiker who found me. A young man, no older than twenty, had wandered off-trail when he stumbled upon the abandoned ranger station. He had expected to find ruins, maybe old equipment, but instead, he found me—motionless, seated in a cross-legged posture, oblivious to the insects crawling along my unmoving arms, a thin film of dust and moss beginning to cling to my skin.

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At first, he thought I was dead.

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"Hey—are you alright?" His voice was hesitant, uncertain whether he should get closer.

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No response.

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He took a cautious step forward and recoiled slightly when he saw a beetle crawl over my fingers, undisturbed by any movement from me. The sight unsettled him, and yet, something about my presence held him in place.

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Then, against all reason, I breathed.

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A slow, deep inhale that cut through the stillness like a blade. My eyes, heavy-lidded and distant, finally lifted to meet his.

 

The hiker took an involuntary step back.

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Word spread quickly. Soon, others came—not out of concern, but curiosity. The tale of the man who sat untouched, unmoving, spread through New Hinton like wildfire. People came in pairs, then in groups, some watching in reverence, others whispering in fascination. A spectacle had been born.

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I was no longer alone.

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With each passing day, the visitors multiplied. Some brought offerings—candles, stones, small trinkets—leaving them in a neat semicircle around me as though I were some kind of shrine. Others simply stared, whispering among themselves, their voices hushed with awe or unease.

Then, the groupies arrived.

Not merely spectators, but devotees—individuals who lingered, sleeping in makeshift shelters nearby, convinced they had found something profound in my presence. They spoke of enlightenment, of truth, though they could not articulate what it was they sought. They mimicked my posture, sat in silence, waited for revelations that would never come.

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Some treated me as a teacher, hanging on to my every breath, seeing meaning in my stillness. Others invented their own doctrines, claiming that my silence contained secret wisdom. A few simply wanted to belong to something larger than themselves. They formed their own community, a shifting, chaotic mass of devotion and projection. Arguments broke out. Some insisted I was divine, others that I was merely a mirror for their own search. A self-proclaimed disciple began to speak on my behalf, interpreting my silence as prophecy. I was both venerated and ridiculed, saint and spectacle.

 

Through it all, I remained unmoving. I listened, but I did not react.

Then, one day, my sister found me.

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She had heard the rumors—the strange man in the woods, unmoving, unyielding. She came not as a pilgrim, nor as a skeptic, but with the quiet hope that it might be me. When she saw my face, her breath hitched, and she knew.

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"Vic..."

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She pushed through the gathered crowd, shooing away gawkers and self-proclaimed seekers alike. With firm words and a presence more commanding than any reverence they held, she sent them scattering, leaving only the two of us in the quiet of the trees.

She knelt beside me, brushing a strand of tangled hair from my face. "What have you done to yourself?" she murmured, her voice both soft and broken.

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She stayed with me, tending to me in the way only a sister could. She brought fresh water, cleaned my face, and did her best to comb out the tangles in my hair. She would take me for slow, short walks in order to slowly regain some of the strength the body had lost.

 

As the days passed, she continued speaking to me, telling me stories of our childhood, reminding me of the world beyond the trees. At night, she sat beside me, listening to the sounds of the forest, hoping that some part of me would stir, that I would come back fully to her.

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One evening, as the sun bled through the trees, she finally asked, "Come home, Vic. Please."

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I did not answer right away. My gaze drifted beyond her, unfocused, lost in some thought she could not reach. Then, at last, I spoke.

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"I can’t."

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A lump formed in her throat. "Why?"

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"Because this is where I belong."

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She shook her head. "No, you belong with us, with those who love you. Not…here. Not like this."

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I did not argue. I simply looked at her, my expression unreadable. She waited, hoping I would change my mind and say something more. But I didn’t.

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She exhaled slowly, then stood. "I can’t keep doing this, Vic. I can’t keep taking care of you if you refuse to take care of yourself."

 

For a moment, she thought I might stop her. That I might say something, anything, to make her stay. But I didn’t.

 

With tears in her eyes, she turned and walked away, disappearing into the forest, leaving me alone once more.

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Continue to Part IX: The Outsider

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