Past the Threshold

Tia sniffed under the canopy, breath sharp with salt where tears had dried. She had wandered here before, but never this far, and the hush pressed closer than it should. Her mother’s hush, her father’s bark carried in the leaves that whispered above.

Knees drawn tight, cheek pressed against them, she let her breath thin. A strand of pale hair clung damp to her cheek; she shoved it aside to see. A twig cracked deeper in the wood. Her wings pressed flat, glassy veins trembling.

Light had gone. Oak and elm no longer shimmered green and gold. The stream she’d crossed earlier no longer sang. It rasped like cloth dragged on stone. Night crept steady, dimming bark, swallowing paths. Branches leaned nearer, listening.

She brushed grit from her palms and kept on. The trees repeated themselves: same ridges of bark, same folds of moss, same shelves of fungus. One turn, then another, then stillness. Turning again only wound her tighter.

Cold pressed in. Moss slicked her ankles. Resin bit her tongue. Roots shifted beneath her as though passing a thought from one to the next.

Her mother’s warning carried in the branches: Don’t go deep. You’ll get lost. Her father’s voice pressed after: No slipping past the threshold. No sneaking off alone.

A bird called thin and high. Silence swelled until another twig cracked.

She pressed to a root, chest tight, the air leaning heavy around her.

“Home,” she whispered into her knees, the word snagging in her throat.

Home meant mantles, leaves curling red and gold, smoke threading rafters. She had crossed without leave, pulled by autumn’s scent, honey and rot, the promise of endings. The step had felt clever at dusk. Foolish now.

She listened for water. Only trickles answered, breaking into wind and hollow. A stone rose taller than her chest. She leaned against it, smallness grinding in her ribs.

Ahead, a flicker wove through branches. Orange brightened, dimmed, then flared again. Heat tugged her forward, though her chest warned back.

Her feet moved anyway.

Voices thickened as she neared. Laughter rose, boots struck earth, bottles sloshed. She crept closer, bark scraping her palms, grass striping her arms.

The clearing opened. Fire blazed at its heart. Figures ringed it, enormous, shadows swinging wide. Sparks leapt and vanished. Heat rolled across her cheeks.

She sank into the grass, chest rattling with their noise.

One giant raised a bottle. Fire lit its curve. To her it loomed barrel-big, liquid dark as sap swirling. They pressed the rim to their mouths, tilting until gulps echoed. Sour-sweet fumes drifted across the circle.

Another cradled a guitar. His fingers plucked, nails bitten short, calloused tips raw. Notes stabbed the air, made the fire twitch. A shiver ran through her arms.

“Don’t hog it, man,” one called, reaching for the bottle. His knuckles were split, white at the joints.

“Relax,” said the drinker. “Not done.”

“You’ve been ‘not done’ for an hour,” another shot back, laughter behind it.

The guitar rumbled harder. “Better my noise than yours.”

“Play something else,” a girl called, braid swinging as she leaned toward the glow.

“This is something else.”

“Still the same three chords,” another laughed, strumming the air.

The circle roared, laughter spilling until the fire jumped with it. A pinecone sailed and thudded short, scattering needles. Someone shouted for the teacher story again. Groans rose when a boy blurted the punchline too soon.

The fire cracked. Sparks climbed, then fell dark.

Tia pressed lower. Their noise rattled her chest, yet the rhythm tugged her nearer.

“Humans,” she breathed.

Her mother’s voice brushed her ear: Stay clear of them, Tia. Don’t ever get close. Her father’s tone pressed after: They’re not for you. Don’t cross over.

Still she crouched close enough to taste their smoke, close enough to see the guitarist’s finger split raw. Her wings flicked once.

A boy leaned in, cap shadowing his eyes, grin quick and thin.

“Bug,” he muttered, and his hand darted.

Fingers clamped. She shrieked, sound tearing from her chest.

“Gotcha,” he said. “Weirdest bug I ever—”

“Mark, what the hell?” the braided girl snapped. “Don’t crush it!”

So Mark was the one with raw-knuckled hands.

Another bent close, hair flaming gold in the firelight. “Wait. Look. That’s no bug.”

His grip slackened and she kicked loose, tumbling into the grass. Wings jolted, veins ringing faint, her palms scraped raw on stone.

The circle stilled. Eyes widened. Voices dropped.

A boy rocked back on his heels, eyes wide. “No way… it cried.”

“Shut up,” muttered the cap-boy. “That was just the fire popping.”

“I’m telling you, I heard it.” He jabbed a finger, voice cracking. “It cried.”

The circle wavered, half ready to laugh, half ready to believe.

Tears burned her face. She smeared them with dirty hands, chest hitching.

The braided girl crouched, hand steady. “It’s okay. We won’t hurt you. What’s wrong?”

Her wings twitched once. “I’m fae. I came through the portal. I lingered too long, and then… I lost the path.”

The fire hissed. Sparks curled. Faces leaned in, shadows spilling across the ground.

“Portal?” the cap-boy said. “Like… a fairy portal?” He half-laughed. “What are you, Tinkerbell?”

“Shut it, Jared,” another muttered, elbowing him.

So the cap-boy had a name. Jared.

“Where?” Mark asked, voice rough. “Where’s your portal?”

Her hand rose, trembling, pointing once then faltering, sliding left before it stilled. Roots beneath her feet pulsed faint, tugging toward a different line of trees. She set her jaw and pointed there.

The guitarist stood. Hair slid across his brow; he shoved it back, eyes green with firelight. His boots knocked clumsy against a root, laugh cracking as he spoke.

For a breath she forgot her fear. Humans, maybe, weren’t all dreadful. At least not the ones whose boots tripped louder than their songs.

“Mushroom patch. That’s near where we found those rings.”

So the guitarist was Ryan.

Mark’s jaw clenched. “I’ll help. I should. I grabbed her.”

The braided girl lifted a narrow tube of light. Its tip glowed white. She swept it across the ground. “Then all of us.”

Her name followed soon after. Lauren.

They bickered until voices tangled with Mark insisting he should carry her, Ryan mocking, Jared doubting. Tia’s wings flicked once, scattering a shimmer that hushed them. They blinked, startled, but the quiet held.

Boots scuffed as bottles were kicked aside, sparks lifting when the fire sighed behind them.

Tia wavered. Lauren crouched, palm open. “Come with us.”

She climbed into the hand. Heat climbed her calves, steadied her knees.

The woods shifted under human stride. The glowing tube carved trunks from shadow, lit beetle shells, flashed in frog eyes before they winked shut.

Ryan thumbed one string low; it hummed deep, then fell silent.

“Seriously,” one whispered. “What even is she?”

“Wings like glass,” another said.

“More like leaves. Thin veins,” someone muttered.

“Quit staring,” Lauren snapped. “Step careful. Crush her and I’ll crush you.”

Mark grunted. “I already said sorry.”

Tia leaned into Lauren’s thumb, heat burning across her cheeks.

Questions spilled over each other, quick and uneven.

“So what, you live in trees or something?” Jared asked.

“Sometimes.”

“Bet she eats flowers too.”

“Only when they fall.”

Lauren’s voice softened. “What about family? Do you have parents?”

“Yes.” The word caught in her throat. “They’ll be waiting.”

A boy stumbled, nearly brushing her. “Careful!” Lauren barked. He threw his hands up. “I’m fine.”

“Then shut it and walk,” another muttered, laughter under breath.

Mud tugged boots. Water licked at laces. Lauren lifted her hand higher to keep Tia clear. The girl’s pulse drummed steady. Tia matched her breath to it.

The air sweetened. Dew thickened. Mushrooms glowed ahead, pale caps bright with faint inner fire. Threads lifted above them, thin as hair, wavering.

Lauren bent low. “This it?”

“Yes.” Dew slicked her ankles. The air hummed. Wings rose, glassy, ringing faint.

The humans hushed. Ryan’s grin tilted, fingers stilled on the strings. Mark’s shoulders stayed taut.

“They’ll scold,” she said, lips twitching. “Make me eat. Hold me too long.”

Ryan chuckled. “Sounds like my place.”

“That’s ’cause you never listen,” Jared muttered, and laughter rippled soft.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re welcome,” Lauren answered. Mark echoed it, rough but real.

Tia stepped into the ring. Light swelled. Sparks scattered. She looked back once. Humans were loud, graceless, but careful when it counted. She would remember the careful.

Maybe they weren’t so bad after all. Maybe even a little cute, when they weren’t making noise with their guitars.

She spread her wings. “Good night,” she said.

“Night,” Lauren called. Others mumbled their own, awkward waves in the dark.

The portal stirred, cold around her legs. Beyond waited mantle, doorframe, voices that would scold and soften. She would bear it. She would return.

Only maybe not so late.