Moose

Moose

You wander deep into the shadowy green stillness of the northern trails. Pines stretch tall like cathedral spires, and the wind hums like breath through moss. The medallion is embedded in the trunk of a fallen birch, half-covered in lichen. You touch it—and for a moment, everything seems even quieter than before.

A heavy snort breaks the silence.

You turn.

There he is.

A mountain of legs, antlers, and profound stillness, peering at you from between the trees like a half-forgotten statue. His ears twitch.

“I saw you before you saw me,” he rumbles. “But I waited. You seemed to be having a moment with the bark.”

You freeze. “Are you… the moose?”

He nods—so slowly, it might be mistaken for a tree leaning in the wind. “I am Moose.”

“…Just Moose?”

“Why name what the forest already knows?” He takes a ponderous step forward. “Names are for creatures who need to shout across the distance. I am never far from myself.”

You nod slowly, unsure if you’re meant to understand or just admire the sentiment.

“I had a question,” you begin.

He interrupts with a thoughtful hum that sounds like wind across a frozen lake. “About the medallions. They all do.”

You blink. “How did you—?”

“I’ve been asked before,” he says. “By the fox, the squirrel, even a badger once, though he mostly shouted.”

You wait.

He chews a leaf.

Finally: “I think the medallions are… memories. From something older than the trees and quieter than the snow. They surfaced when the sky cracked, and now they’re waiting to be remembered. By someone like you.”

You try to press for more, but he shifts his gaze to the mountains in the distance.

“Or maybe,” he says, “they’re just shiny things and this is all a cosmic accident. I walk a lot. I have time to consider both.”

He lifts a hoof and places it delicately into the muddy trail.

“Whatever the case,” he adds, “you should walk more slowly. You miss a great deal, stomping about like you do.”

He begins to move, vast and quiet as a passing cloud. Before disappearing into the trees, he turns slightly.

“Oh,” he says. “If the elk tells you he’s king, remind him he once got stuck in a swing set.”

Then he vanishes, moss swallowing the sound of his steps.