Silence.

 

The silence of a forest is much like the silence of an apartment.

 

At first, it seems as though there are no sounds at all.

 

But the moment you let go of your thoughts, you begin to hear.

 

First, the murmur of the city.

 

A car passes by. Then another.

 

Far away, an ambulance siren wails, trapped somewhere at an intersection.

 

Seagulls crying beyond the windows.

 

The hum of an elevator.

 

Footsteps in the hallway.

 

A lock clicks. A door creaks… then closes.

 

The refrigerator quietly rustles… shudders, then falls still.

 

The window vents softly clap shut.

 

The wind whispers through the ventilation shafts.

 

The forest is no different.

 

The distant murmur of a highway—or perhaps a railway.

 

The wind moving through the treetops.

 

Grass and dry branches crunching beneath my boots.

 

And then, little by little, only the sounds of the forest’s inhabitants remain.

 

Something rustles and scurries across the ground.

 

Tiny birds burst into flight.

 

Or a woodpecker starts knocking, as though someone were pouring dry peas from a palm into a wooden bucket. Loud enough for the whole forest to hear.

 

The air is clean, tinged with pine and damp fallen leaves. No tangled masses of deadwood or rotting trees. With a little care, this place could almost be a park.

 

And yet the mountain slopes never let you simply walk. Every step demands a choice of where to place your foot.

 

I don’t know what keeps drawing me into the woods with a shotgun.

 

There isn’t much game here, and as a city man, I have no reason to hunt for food like people once did. The stores have everything.

 

Maybe it’s the weight of a weapon that carries death, pulling against my shoulder through its sling.

 

The feeling of superiority.

 

Or perhaps of protection.

 

During the war, these woods were no place for a casual stroll.

 

Hidden trails.

 

Observation posts concealed in the undergrowth.

 

Every bush, every trunk, every stump could hide a deadly threat.

 

A little clearing where a family might happily spend a weekend picnic could become a shooting gallery.

 

Only instead of wooden animals, paper targets, spinning windmills, or balloons…

 

there would be a silent chain of commandos.

 

This very one…

 

Why did I come here?

 

Yes, it’s peaceful.

 

Quiet.

 

You can even drive here.

 

Spread a blanket beside that bush and lay out every kind of food imaginable.

 

I’ve known this clearing for a very long time.

 

Since the war.

 

Even then it felt strange.

 

You couldn’t reach the road from the gorge without passing through it.

 

Of course, they could have gone around.

 

But something about this place made them feel safe.

 

So they came.

 

And I was already there.

 

Like a tiger waiting to spring.

 

Everything froze in the tension before the final movement.

 

A movement so small it would barely be noticed.

 

The movement of a single finger.

 

The movement that would divide the world into before and after.

 

Into life and death.

 

Success and regret.

 

Exactly as it was then.

 

Strange…

 

It should have changed so much over the years.

 

But…

 

What?

 

What’s wrong here?

 

What’s that…

 

beneath the bush?

 

An anthill…

 

No…

 

It’s a stuffed dog.

 

Someone must have forgotten it here.

 

The forest had turned it into a home for its smallest inhabitants.

 

In its own way…

 

another little death.

 

A transformation.

 

Damn.

 

The second time I’ve met death here.

 

That child’s toy…

 

A symbol of a carefree time that can never return.

 

And that face…

 

From my memory…

 

Damn.

 

Damn!

 

Damn!

 

Why was he there?..

 

How did I not see him?..

 

I didn’t mean to…

 

No.

 

That’s not true.

 

I did.

 

That’s exactly what I wanted.

 

He drove me mad with his sermons.

 

Always lecturing me.

 

Always telling me how to live.

 

As if he himself hadn’t fired enough shots in the previous war to keep the devils in hell counting forever.

 

And he really could shoot.

 

Cleanly.

 

Precisely.

 

But there was no joy in knowing that I had ended his journey.

 

Why?

 

Better someone else than me.

 

And yet it was I who wanted to measure myself against the commandos.

 

In the end…

 

I got exactly what I wanted.

 

Only then did I realize…

 

it wasn’t what I truly wanted.

 

So what did I want?

 

Hell if I know.

 

No game.

 

No prey.

 

Only foolish thoughts.

 

Aaaah!

 

A pigeon…

 

High above.

 

I raised the gun.

 

Shouldered it.

 

Inhale.

 

Click.

 

Whoosh…

 

Hit.

 

Just like then.

 

There…

 

It fell at the edge of the clearing.

 

The commando.

 

The dog.

 

The pigeon.

 

Three.

 

Three deaths on a quiet little clearing made for family picnics.

 

Damn!

 

How?

 

It’s like a hallucination.

 

A rustle in the bushes?..

 

Footsteps?..

 

They’re coming for me…

 

…

 

Or was I imagining it?