Ranger Mark had walked these woods for twenty years. He knew the rhythm of the forest—the rustle of leaves, the crack of a branch underfoot, the distant caw of a crow. But that afternoon, something felt off. A sharp snap beneath his boot sent a murder of crows spiraling into the gray sky, their frantic cries a warning he couldn’t ignore.
Mark followed the uneasy feeling to a small clearing, dominated by an ancient pine and a weathered stump where he often rested. But today, the clearing was anything but empty. Sitting on the moss-covered stump was a child.
No older than six, the boy’s blue jacket was soaked and muddy. His small shoulders slumped with a quiet, unnatural patience. Most lost children panic, but this boy didn’t. He stared at a patch of ferns, calm yet weary, as if he’d been waiting for hours—maybe days.
“Hey there,” Mark said gently, keeping his distance. “What are you doing out here all alone?”
The boy slowly turned his wide, dark-eyed gaze toward him. “Mom told me to wait here,” he whispered. “She said she’d be back soon.”
A chill ran down Mark’s spine. He scanned the trees, looking for a parent, a car, anything. Nothing. He crouched to the boy’s level.
“When did your mom leave?”
“Yesterday… or maybe the day before. I don’t remember. She said to stay by the big tree so she could find me.”
Mark’s heart tightened. The boy was shivering, hypothermia setting in, the thin jacket soaked through. “What’s your name, son?”
“Tom.”
“I’m Mark, a ranger. I help people find their way. Do you know where your house is?”
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