The Man At The End of the Path

⚠️ Demo Story — Created to showcase the reading experience on this platform.

There’s a path behind my childhood home that no one uses anymore.

When I was younger my mother told me never to walk it after dark.

I didn’t listen.

The first time I walked it at night, I saw him.

A silhouette at the end of the path.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just stood there.

When I stepped closer, he stayed the same distance away.

Like the path was stretching.

I stopped going.

Years later, after my mother died, I went back.

The path was shorter.

The trees felt closer.

And he was nearer than before.

Not at the end.

Halfway down.

I checked old family photos.

In the background of one taken near the path, there was a dark shape between the trees.

In another, years later, the shape was closer.

He wasn’t waiting at the end.

He was moving forward every time I looked.

Last week I walked the path again.

It was shorter than ever.

And he was standing right behind me.

I know because when I turned around—

The path was empty.

But the forest felt like it was breathing behind my back.