Cougar

Cougar

The park lies higher than most—a rise above the city, half-forgotten trails woven through crumbling rock and wind-tossed pines. You’ve been walking longer than you meant to, and something about the stillness makes your skin hum.

You find the medallion lodged between two stones. It’s cool to the touch, though the air is warm.

You look up.

She’s already there.

Perched on a rock above, her body a ripple of tawny shadow and golden calm. She watches you with eyes like polished amber, head tilted just slightly—like a question she’s already answered.

“You climbed all this way,” she says. Her voice is low, velvet wrapped around steel. “Impressive. For a human.”

You step back. “You’re the cougar.”

She yawns—a slow, luxurious motion that shows every tooth. “Do try not to call me that. I prefer Ghost of the High Pines. Or Whispers-When-It’s-Too-Late.” A pause. “But I suppose ‘Cougar’ will do.”

You manage a swallow. “I wanted to ask—why can I talk to you now?”

She gives you a look like you’ve asked how breathing works.

“Because now you’re listening,” she says simply. “Before, you only filled the silence. Now you’re part of it.”

You nod, unsure if that’s profound or ominous.

She rises, pads around you in a slow circle, barely rustling the pine needles. “The medallions woke something old. Something with teeth and dreams and fur. They pulled a thread. And the tapestry is loosening.”

“Is that… bad?”

She stops. Smiles faintly. “That depends on whether you prefer your world tidy.”

Then she leans closer. “There are things deeper than fur and warmer than language. This magic—it’s not new. It’s just remembering itself.”

You think of asking another question. She’s already gone.

No sound. No goodbye. Only the faint scent of wild sage and claw-marks on your sense of certainty.

You’re alone again. Or maybe not.

Hard to tell, now.