Canadian Lynx

Canadian Lynx

You hike where the trees grow so dense that only slivers of sky dare peek in. Underfoot, crisp needles and pale lichens hush your steps. Tucked behind a mossy rock, half-buried in last fall’s snow dust, is the next medallion. You press the cool bronze.

In that instant, the forest falls silent… except for a soft pat‑pat‑pat. You turn and see her silhouette—tall, tuft‑eared, pale‑pelted—slipping through the undergrowth with feline grace.

She pads closer, eyes glinting like moon‑bright ice.

“You came,” she says. Voice low and smooth. “I wondered if you would.”

You meet her steady gaze. “I found the medallion.”

She nods, tail flicking. “As expected. Now we speak.”

You offer a question: “What do you think the medallions are?”

She pauses, ears twitching. “They are footprints,” she says, “echoes of where the world shifted—fractures in the old calm. The trees remember the cracks. The snow remembers the fall.”

She steps around you, barely disturbing the ground. “Touch enough of them, and you stitch those echoes back together. Maybe the forest thinks you’re a weaver.”

You ask quietly, “Why mammals?”

Her whiskers stir. “Mammals whisper secrets in fur and bones. We carry warmth through solitude. We listen in the dark, remember beneath ice. The stones and the owls and the wolves speak too—but not like this.”

She shrugs, elegant as mist. “Birds soar; their voices vanish. Fish swim; their songs are sunk. Mammals travel the land and the mind.”

You pause. “And if I find them all?”

Her lips twitch—an almost-smile. “Then the cracks may mend. Or they may fracture more. Either way, you’ll walk a path most can’t follow.”

She retreats a single step. “I’ll be watching your trail. If it grows too bold, I’ll guide you. If it grows too quiet, I’ll whisper back.”

And just like that, she vanishes—slide and flick into the snow‑silenced woods, leaving nothing but the echo of padded footsteps…and the soft weight of magic in the air.