My blood chilled at the words, and I slowly turned to see the boy standing in the corner, a wild look in his eyes, gripping the fire poker in one of his hands.

I defensively take 3 steps back, and he takes one forward. "I-my name-Willow," I say, and I grab onto the edge of the couch. I watch his every movement, the look of wonder as he takes in my house, and watch as his defenses slowly fall.

Wolf pads into the room, probably sensing my panic from upstairs, and his attention turns to the boy in the corner. "What the hell is that!" The boy shouts, his voice cracking. He points the firepoker at Dog, and Dog growls, taking a defensive stance.

"It's my pet, Dog," I rush to explain, grabbing onto his coat to keep him from attacking our guest.

"That is not a dog!" He yells, looking at me with panic.

"Put the firepoker down or you'll be sleeping outside!" I shout back, and one glance at the window makes him hesitantly drop the firepoker. Dog stops growling, but doesn't let up on his stance. I slowly release him, chiding to him about being nice.

The boy's eyes slowly tear away from Dog and back to me. I'm in shock when I see them; they're the purest dark green I've seen, so dark you might mistake them for black. He seems to be made of the forest; his dark, unruly curls sit on top of his head in a mop, drying from the snow. His lips are red like poison berries, his cheeks flushed with almost the same hue. I'm relieved to see his fingers are no longer blue, but instead are so pale they're nearly see through. He has well maintained, strong brows. His hand reaches up to run through his hair, but gets caught in the knots, and he winces.

"Who are you?" I ask, my eyes now raking down him. He's wearing very, very old shoes, with little holes throughout, terribly patched up. His sweatpants have little holes dotted throughout, exposing his pale skin beneath, and his t-shirt is completely plain, with no markings on where it came from.

"I'm, uh," he hesitates for a second, and I narrow my eyes at him, before realizing he genuinely doesn't know. Then, his eyes light up, and he looks at me with his forest-made eyes. "Chris. My name is Chris."

"Okay, Chris," I say, rising to my feet. "How did you end up so deep in the woods? How are you alive?"

He squints again, making the same face of confusion before. "I-I don't know," he stutters, and for a moment he looks like he might pop a vessel trying to think.

"Are you from the boy's correctional center? They're supposed to warn you to never go in those woods," I say the second part more to myself, feeling anger in my gut at the lack of care from the counselors there.

"I-I think so," he says, scratching the back of his head and beginning to pace. "What day is it? I don't remember anything from the last few weeks. Or months. And it's snowy out? Last I remember, it was—" His eyes suddenly snap with a remembrance I can't place. "I remember chopping logs with other boys in preparation for winter, at the camp. Yeah, no, I remember. God, what day is it again?"

I watch him with a calculated gaze, not sure if he's messing with me. "It's January 12th. You don't remember snow?" I ask cautiously, looking at Dog like he'll have any insight. His eyes are following Chris's every move, and his lip is curled back in a subtle snarl, still.

"No. I don't remember...anything." He gently hits himself on the temple, eyes squeezed shut, willing himself to remember. His pacing as stilled, and I can see the stress forming at his eyebrows.

We've been snowed it for nearly a month, I think to myself. If he didn't remember the storm, then he must've been out in the wild, in the deep woods, for longer than any person ever has.

"It's okay," I say, reaching out a cautious hand. His eyes peel open and he looks at me, almost out of breath from the strain he put on himself. "You're probably traumatized from whatever happened out there. You don't have to remember it all now." I keep my hand outstretched, and he cautiously takes it.

I pull my hand away in an instant. "God, you're ice cold. Sit by the fire and hold this," I instruct, placing the sealed jar in his hand and pulling him to sit on the couch.

"What is this?" he asks, inspecting the jar and giving it a light shake, looking at the mixture inside. He lifts a suspicious brow at me.

"It's-It's hard to explain," I say, deciding not to tell him right off the bat that he was in a witch's cottage in the scary abandoned forest. But realization crosses his face, and he narrows his eyes at me.

"You're the witch I heard about," he says. "I remember. The boys would swap stories about you and how you ate men for breakfast and kept them locked in your basement." He seems immediately on edge, pushing himself up with his hands and looking towards the door, like he may run.

I push my palm into my eyeball and squeeze my eyes closed. "Jesus, man, I'm trying to help you here! You're not locked in the basement, are you?" I give him an incredulous look and throw my hands out to emphasize the fact we are very much not in a basement. "Yes, I am the witch you heard about, but I don't eat boys for breakfast and I don't have any magical powers." I throw my hands up dramatically. His eyes soften a little, and I swear I see a smile forming on his lip. I give an exasperated laugh and wipe the sweat that has formed on my forehead. "I am not the type of magic you think I am."

"So what's this?" He asks, gesturing to the bottle in his hands, which he shakes again for emphasis. "A spell?"

"Yes-well, kind of. It's medicine in my family. Sleep with it for one night and tomorrow the heat should come back to your bones. You probably have hypothermia paired with your memory loss. I literally thought you were dead when I found you, which is why I brought you back here." His stomach gives out a loud growl and he flushes, looking away. "Hungry?" I ask with a smile.

He looks at the jar in his hand, inspecting it closer, and after deeming it must have no harmful things in it, slips it in his pocket. "Yeah, starved," he says with a boyish grin. Dog's expression has changed at the lighter atmosphere in the room, and he hops onto the couch with Chris, rubbing his hand over his head. Chris looks, wide-eyed, and gives him a hesitant rub. I hold back my laughter as I turn to the kitchen.

I inspect the fridge for anything fresh; two chicken eggs remain from last time I managed to get into town, old, dry cheese, and some sad-looking spinach. I grimace and grab the eggs and cheese, heating up an iron skillet. Omelette is the best thing I can offer, I decide, while putting on a kettle at the same time. Like it's engraved in my bones, I begin to press herbs and make my grandmother's winter tea along side. I ready the two mugs and the plate, sneaking a glance over at Chris.

Dog is now resting his head in Chris's lap, and Chris is lightly stroking his fur, looking into the crackling of the fire thoughtfully. Probably trying to remember. He looks over, presumably feeling my gaze, and my cheeks heat as my eyes snap back to the task in front of me. When I look back, his eyes have returned to the crackling fireplace, and his skin glows orange from it. I finish the omelette swiftly and take it and our tea cups to the living room, where I sit in an armchair that's facing him.

He picks at the eggs with his fork, and I suddenly remember my bag of goodies perched against the wall. I stand up and move behind the couch, retrieving it.

"What's that?" He asks innocently, tasting one of the eggs. He decides they're up to his standards before he shoves the rest of them in his mouth. Dog sniffs the plate, licking any remaining egg bits off the plate.

"It's what I got from the forest this month," I say, forgetting he wouldn't understand. "I'll explain later," I say in response to his puzzled look, but he doesn't seem any more comforted.

I pull out the teaspoon for Beth, and the dirty broken dinner plate, putting them on the small table next to me. Then, I carefully pull out the jewelry box, and lift the lid.

A soft melody fills the room, and I look up at Chris with a smile on my face. Hardly anything ever works when found in the forest, and I look back at the box in awe as the pink ballerina spins. Inside, there's two rings, one encrusted with gems and the other a plain, silver band. A few gems lay here and there, including a small diamond and a ruby. At the bottom, a locket with a broken chain sits, waiting. I eagerly pick it up and open it.

Inside is a photo of a man with dark skin and chocolate eyes looks up at me, smiling. On the other side, a note that makes my smile fall immediately.

To Magnolia,
Though we live worlds apart,
You live in my heart, forever.

Magnolia. My mom's name.

My breath hitches in my throat and I realize, the man I'm looking at could very much be my dad. But why would this box have been in the woods?

"What is it?" Chris asks, seeing my expression.

I quickly close the locket and return it to the box, putting it on the table next to me. "Nothing, it's just something I found in the woods. Thought I recognized someone." I try to force a smile, but I can tell it doesn't reach my eyes.

"Did you find those in the woods too?" He asks, gesturing towards the items on the table. I nod, trying to slow down my brain's swirling thoughts.

"It's a thing in my family," I say, pointing at the shelves around the room lazily. "We find lost items and give them a home here." I found you, too.

"Guess I'm lost then, huh?" He jokes, half-serious. I give a smile and nod.

"You sure are." I lazily sip my tea, resisting grabbing the box again and inspecting the items inside. I look at Chris, and he's emptied both his cup and plate. I mindlessly stand and take the dishes from him, moving swiftly into the kitchen to wash them off. "You should get some sleep," I call from the kitchen, placing the dishes on the drying rack and drying my hands with a towel. "You're probably exhausted."

Though as I move back into the living room, I see the evidence of his exhaustion, as he's passed out with his head backwards. I look in awe for a second, examining his facial features and the way his chest rises and falls with each breath. A smile pulls the corner of my lips as I grab a throw blanket from my chair and gently place it over him. "Come, Dog," I say, and he obeys, following behind me as I collect all of my newfound things to go upstairs.

Tap, tap, tap.

My head snaps to the window as Dog lets out a whimper. And there the two butterflies are, doing their wicked dance, reminding me that death is near. I swallow, but my throat is suddenly dry.

I ignore them and run up the stairs, closing my room door tight and changing into my nightclothes, praying they won't follow me and tap, tap, tap on my window all night.

They don't, and exhaustion quickly takes me under.