Morok

In the village of Velesovo, the day was drawing to a close. The inhabitants hurried to finish their final chores: some were stowing hay under sheds, others were driving livestock into courtyards, while others were loading sacks of grain onto carts. At the edge of the village, an old wooden fence remained unfinished.

The sun was dipping toward the horizon, bathing the rooftops and the tops of the pines in a golden light. From the direction of the forest, a pale mist began to crawl forward, creeping across the grass and approaching the first houses.

An old man carrying a bundle of firewood stopped by the road and frowned, staring toward the woods.

— Morok is coming.

He shook his head and gestured toward the village.

— Finish your work before the fog covers everything. And remember: do not believe everything you see. Keep your eyes on the road.

However, the work dragged on. By the time the last tasks were completed, the sun had already vanished behind the forest. All that remained was to make it home.

The road felt familiar—the same hedge, the same pines, the same turn by the old stump. And yet, something was wrong. The place felt simultaneously intimate and utterly alien, as if someone had subtly altered the well-known path.

The fog grew thicker. The trees on either side of the road blurred into gray silhouettes, and the outlines of the village houses gradually faded into nothingness ahead.

A shadow flickered between the trunks.

Then another.

Soon, there were no lights left, no voices of the villagers—only the white haze and the quiet rustle of branches.

And then, a low laugh drifted out from the mist.

— The road home always seems familiar... until you stop understanding where it leads.

The voice sounded very close.

— You still think you know the way, don't you?