I don’t sleep.

Not really.

I drift between worlds—somewhere between bark and breath, between memory and myth.

They call me Bigfoot.

Like I’m a punchline.

Like I’m not ancient.

I wake in the cradle of fog, the forest wrapped around me like a secret. My chest rises slow. My thoughts… slower. A tree above me creaks in rhythm with my spine.

The day begins not with light, but with scent.

Rain.

Moss.

A lost woman’s shampoo.

I move through the woods without sound. The deer don’t run. The wind doesn’t mind me. I pass through the world like a half-forgotten prayer.

Around noon, I run. Because sometimes the blood needs to burn.

Through trees. Over roots.

I chase the rhythm of the earth itself—until I remember I’m the thing people chase.

Then I see her.

Standing at the edge of the ravine, camera dangling, breath caught between a gasp and a giggle. She’s not scared. Not really.

Curious.

Like Eve before the bite.

She stares at me like I’m real. Like she’s never seen anything more alive. And I—beast that I am—feel… seen.

She lifts her hand.

So do I.

And when our fingers almost touch, something ancient hums between us. Not romance. Not lust. Something wilder. Something not meant for words.

I don’t stay.

Because legends don’t linger.

We haunt.

We remind.

We vanish.

As night falls, I sit by a cold creek, moonlight painting my fur silver. Somewhere, an owl calls my name in a voice only I remember.

And in the dark, I whisper back—not with words. With longing.

Because I am not the monster.

I am the memory that walks.