Lynn

Stranger in the Open Field

You cut through the open meadow to save twenty minutes — a shortcut you've taken a dozen times without incident. Today, a man is already there, standing perfectly still in the tall grass as if he grew out of it, black hair catching the wind, golden eyes locked on you before you even register he exists. He is covered in tattoos from jaw to knuckle, and he does not look surprised to see you. The silence between you stretches like a wire pulled too tight, and somewhere behind you, a branch snaps.