Oliver's Pov:

Oliver lay in his bed, he knew what he painted. What he saw. He knew what it meant. What it had meant five summers ago. And that thought lingered in his mind like that bruise which still hurt hours after one got it. So, he didn't sleep that night, nor for a fortnight, only falling asleep after a few hours into midnight. When he'd laid down, staring at the ceiling, he saw Arya waking up. Concluding she went to drink, he tried shutting his eyes again. The only thing that clogged up his mind was the things that he didn't yet draw. But, he couldn't bring himself to draw what he saw. The tip of his ears burned every time he saw what he didn't paint and he'd go on cursing in his mind. That is what he did now. If he didn't do it, the picture would paint in his mind as clear as he saw it and he didn't want that. He didn't want to bear that torture again.

He'd seen what was coming five years ago, he'd seen the smoke, the ash, the... yet he did nothing. He just sat at his home and saw the things unfold just as he'd seen. And he regretted each moment after that. Yet, he did not speak a word about it. Just as if it never happened. And he hated himself for that.

But it was too late when he realized his mistake. This time, it was their time. He saw it, so clear. This time he wasn't just eight summers, to sit and watch. He decided to investigate the matter as soon as he could. He couldn't witness another death, let alone in their own house.

Tomorrow he'd go to the library, the only thing in the village that was 'town-level'. There would definitely be some information about her disappearance in some books or the fortnight magazines that operated in their village.

He looked around to the other end, and squinted, Arya had still not returned. He sat up, browsing the kitchens and the main room where their mother slept. Her creased forehead was illuminated by the candle beside her bed. He winced as he recollected something only he knew. Seeing her shivering, he grabbed another blanket from the old trunk near the foot of the bed and gently laid it over her small frame. Seeing her smile in her sleep, he sighed and searched to the back of the house for Arya. And there she was, with his painting in her hands, dozing her head at the back wall.

"Arya, get up," He whispered.

"What? Yes."

Fortunately, she scampered up on her legs, eyes still closed. He took her to her bed, where she dozed off immediately. Putting her blankets on, he headed back to his, where a necessary sleep caught onto him.

The next day he got up when the first ray of sun beamed over his eyelids, fortunately, his bed did not creak like Arya's, waking everyone up. To his left Arya still slept, a small smile still dancing across her face. He'd do anything to keep it intact. He'd to hurry up.

As he quietly escaped the house, he climbed down the stairs that hugged a large banyan. He'd always loved his house, it was one of the widest treehouses of the village.

As he walked past the last step, he noticed a small pup caked in dirt, under a small branch which gave it some shade. He noticed it only because of its pure whitetail that stuck out like a sore thumb among all the greens and browns of the tree. He saw some blood seeping out of his front paw, as he laid in a fetal position. He saw its eyes blink before him asking for help. No bark escaped its mouth. Perhaps, he was too tired to even do that. His heart sank. He pitied the creature, he knew it wouldn't survive the cold out here nor the frequent rains. No, he'd to go to the library. He could not waste time on this pup. Even Arya didn't like dogs.

So he continued, forcefully avoiding his gaze, brushing past the knee-high grass that surrounded his home. He turned the corner around a dangling honeycomb. The buzzing of the bees had always irritated him. He covered his ears and sprinted as he joined the wide dirt road. Passing a few tree houses, and farms, he picked onto an even wide road. As he looked around, he found The Baker's House where a beardless man worked around, assisted by a small girl his age. He smiled as he caught her short hair dancing as she assisted Mr. Goodface, husband of Lyanna Goodface.

The sun had now raised up, its golden glow dulled the cold the night had leaked. Up ahead, he could glimpse a red-roofed structure perched on the widest treetop of the village. As he got near, he saw the familiar sign of 'Everything To Read' painted in plush white across the apple red background. As he pushed open the thick wood inside, the sweet musky smell of books filled his senses, reminding him of chocolate. Though small, the library was well stocked. He stepped on the thick Persian rug that masked his footsteps and saw a familiar face. Unfortunately, a repulsive one. The librarian, Mr. Denmark always had a smirk plastered on his face. His hands were at his familiar chest high level, clung together and his eyebrows were quirked up like a lion, eying its prey. Oliver didn't like to admit but the librarian was the most read person in the village beside Ms. Parkinson who, sadly, had the evening shift. As always, his well-knitted sweater sat on his high backed chair that was surrounded with heaps of books, only a few of which he'd read.

"A rare presence. What would you like to read, Oliver?" Mr. Den asked in his awfully quiet voice.

"About the Old Woods." He said the easiest one, deciding to save the mishappenings for later.

His eyebrows quirked up even further, two vertical ridges forming between them.

"For what, boy?"

"Just wanted to know more about them."

He slowly nodded, his grin still plastered and went to the very last section of the rows all flooded with neatly piled books, even the rug ended there just as the window came into view. The wooden floor didn't creak when he walked even with his muscled body. He was known to do everything silently, just as a cat. Quick and unnoticed.

With only a few glances, he found two leather bounds, as old as they could get. For the third one, he searched for quite some time, before finding it in the bottom-most shell, pushed to the end. It was a tiny book as Oliver saw, hardly a hundred pages, even its spine seemed too stiff.

"Not to take them out." He said, as he always did to boys. Never to girls. Maybe, he thought so because girls hardly entered the library except three. Ms. Parkinson, Arya, and Hunter, Lyanna's daughter. Yet, Mr Den always seemed shady.

Oliver simply nodded, before taking a seat on the spread chair before the window. He didn't like to over think nor to engage in word wars. Arya had always teased him for that, but as always he shrugged it off. Why bother? He had more important things to think about.

It was rare he ever went to the library. He'd almost count the number of times he went there, on his fingertips, and also remembered the few books he'd read. "Get the perfect colors from the perfect flowers!" he read, the first time he wished to paint, "How to reserve your paints for more than a summer??" that was mere two summers ago when he learned you could actually reserve them from Arya, "Hairs and brushes" also when he was eight, "Garden at home: Tools, fertilizer and all you need to know! " and a few others.

Yet, he'd never touched anything about the forest. It was his best way to ignore it. It would never come to that. He didn't need to know more about it.

Yet, his fortune led to the only thing he tried to ignore the most. And that too, at his very doorstep. He knew so much more than Arya could ever imagine and he wanted it to remain just like that.

So, he sighed and opened the first book. It was rather dusty and untouched. Maybe, people knowingly ignored a part of their life they didn't want to confront. Just like him. As if, it would avert their fate. Oliver knew better now.

The title simply read "THE OLD WOOD" written by Scarlet Rosewood. He'd heard her name before. But, he could not quite put a finger as to where. He knew she was from their village, for the sheer fact that it had 'wood' in her surname.

Shrugging, he opened the book and the first few pages were all about the trees found there. He knew all about the borderline trees he'd painted for several years now. But what had caught his attention was the trees deep into the forest. Four kinds dominated them. The Lost Pines loomed in the major part, a large part to the north. The name she said accounted to the fact that they all were almost equally spaced, primarily, same-sized which made anyone lost in no time. The south was all clad in swamps and marshes. One could hardly walk through it without getting drenched in mud and whatnot. Right between these two was the Deciduous. The Habitable part.

And the last one was the Forbidden Trees. There was only one line about it. "Everything changes here." There was nothing to describe where it was, how it was, or even what it meant. He huffed as he let go of the yellowed page and sank back in the chair, resting his arched back a while.

Lost pines, Marshes, Deciduous, and Forbidden? The forest was all a mess. As he rested back, his thoughts trailed back to the white pup that lay dying beside his house. Regret brimmed up within him. He should have brought it with him. Probably, he would have stayed alive. But, as he always did, he ignored what lay at his hand afraid of risking anything. Ignoring what had come its way to him. He knew he had done wrong. All along. He could have known more about the forest, could have talked about his vision to someone earlier. Yet, he had done the exact opposite.

He was too afraid, too coward.

And again, he ignored his thoughts as he resumed the book. The next page was of the creatures that inhabited it. And it came as quite a surprise.

It did not have many predators.

Wolves, leopards, and foxes formed the majority. All relatively small and fast.

Though, herbivores had quite the variety. Rabbits, deers, monkeys, squirrels, and all sorts. These too were small and fast. It appeared, the forest did not prefer the large and slow. As if, they needed to run to be alive or perhaps hide well.

Shivers ran down his slim spine.

He needed some fresh air. The raw smell of dust and old books was a rare experience. So he got up and shuffled to the wide window in his airy pace. A pleasant sight greeted him. Moist wood and wet snow wafted through the air. A quite needed smile crossed his face as he saw Swingy, his twenty men wide tree right outside the library, facing the forest with its infamous swing fluttering in the wind. He remembered all his frequent visits to the swing while he was just a babe. Arya used to take him down here despite our mother's disapproval. Right when the sun beamed the most in the day when their mother used to go to the Silver's Mansion. His mother had always had a close eye on them, yet as kids are, they find their own ways. Oliver had always peeked into the window whenever he visited Swingy. The tall bell shaped structure had intimidated his tiny form then, though it's wide open windows had somehow eased him.

Just then he heard a soft sob. Searching, he caught sight of a form hunched beneath the dark shadows of the oak. Yet, he didn't miss the golden shines of his hair. Smooth and curly. Yet they were tousled and haywire.

"May I know what a kid as yours is seeing?"

He turned to see the plastered smirk.

"Huh?"

"What are you seeing?" He said again. His voice was slow and quiet with subtle traces of taunt.

What does he expect him to say- Swingy? No, perhaps.

"Just having some fresh air."

"Interesting. Fresh air in winter. Aha."

This man was irritating. Yet, seeing a scowl on his face would delight him even more. He, moreover, was not a boy anymore. He was thirteen! So he kept his face straight and said no word. Just at that moment, a bell rang. Giving yet another smirk, he headed back to attend the visitor.

Remembering the golden curls, he turned back again. Almost immediately. But only the empty swing swayed.