You Go Beneath the Arches

The arches pull at you.

Not with hands, not with force, but with an inevitability you cannot resist—like the tide, like a memory that surfaces unbidden in the dark. They lean into one another as if conspiring, their bent trunks and tangled roots forming vaulted ribs, the skeleton of some cathedral that never belonged to human hands. Their bark gleams slick with moisture, threads of moss and lichen hanging like sagging curtains.

The air changes as you step toward them.

It thickens—humid, wet, and ripe with the smell of rot. The chimes you heard from the other path fade. The silence that filled the straight path fades too. Here there is only a sound you cannot quite name. A slow drip. A hush that could be water moving far away. A whisper that you can almost believe is your name.

The arches close overhead. Each one you pass beneath bends further, lower, as if the forest itself is pressing down to inspect you. Bark is not bark here: it puckers like skin, stretches like tendon. One trunk yawns open with a creak and you glimpse pale marrow glistening beneath before it seals again. Another bears not moss but a rash of swollen growths that ooze when brushed. The shadows are deeper, thicker—so full they feel liquid against your skin.

You step again, and the ground sinks.

It is subtle at first: damp earth sucking faintly at your heel. But then the next step squelches, pulling at you as if reluctant to release. Another step, and water seeps around your boots, black and cold. You glance back. The arches behind you are closed—woven together, ribs locked tight. No retreat. No turning back.

The forest has chosen.

You keep moving because you must. The water is shallow at first, lapping at your ankles, but it rises fast. Each step brings a deeper plunge: shin, then knee, then thigh. It smells of rust and mildew, thick with a film that clings to your skin. The roots beneath the surface writhe faintly, brushing your flesh like curious fingers. You try not to flinch. You fail.

The arches guide you onward. Their twisted trunks rise out of the water like the legs of vast insects, each bend forming a grotesque doorway into the swamp. Vines trail down like veins, brushing your shoulders, smearing slime. The deeper you go, the more the swamp becomes everything. The water stretches out in all directions, no ground in sight. You wade through it as though through a dream, your steps muffled, body sluggish.

It is lonely here.

Not the loneliness of being unseen. Not the loneliness of being abandoned. It is older. Vast. The loneliness of a place that was never meant for you, that does not even notice you are here.

The forest does not speak now. The arches do not whisper. The silence here is complete except for the faint splash of your limbs. You feel yourself becoming smaller with each step, reduced, diminished. Not a person, not even prey. Just something misplaced.

The water climbs higher, to your ribs now, heavy and cold. You drag your arms to keep balance, and something moves beneath your hand. Not water. Not plant. Something softer. Flesh-like. You jerk away and see only ripples spreading into the black.

The arches thin as you move deeper. The swamp opens up into something wider, vaster. It should feel like release, but it doesn’t. It feels like being exposed. Vulnerable. The sky above is gone. There is only canopy, blotched and rotten, dripping filth. You try to lift your chin and see light, but all you find is shadow.

The water whispers against your chest now. It has swallowed half of you, and still it rises. The liquid clings as though it has weight, dragging your clothing, your skin, your bones. You breathe harder, but the air is thick with mold. Each inhale is a wound.

You try to remember why you walked beneath the arches.

You try to remember your name again.

It does not come.

Only that vast, aching loneliness fills you.

Then you feel the hands.

They are not truly hands—just roots, tendrils, filaments—but they wrap around your calves and thighs with the intimacy of touch. They stroke, they grasp, they test your weight. When you fight, they tighten. They are not malicious. Not cruel. They are curious, as if they cannot tell if you are flesh or water, if you are something to keep or something to dissolve.

Your breath stutters.

You push forward.

But the water resists now. It is not just liquid—it is substance. Each step takes effort, like forcing your way through muscle. You feel it pushing back, and with every pushback, you grow weaker.

The loneliness deepens.

You realize the swamp is not empty.

It is full.

It is crowded with things you cannot see. You feel them brushing past your body in the black, sliding along your sides, drifting over your arms. Not fish. Not animals. Something softer. Something porous. They do not swim. They hang. They float. As if the water itself has grown organs.

You glance down. For a moment, you think you see faces beneath the surface. Pale. Bloated. Eyeless. They open their mouths and bubbles rise. You cannot tell if they are breathing or screaming. The ripples erase them before you can know.

The water is at your collarbone.

You are so tired.

Something brushes your lips. A ripple. A caress. You clamp your mouth shut, but the water presses, insistently, lovingly. It wants you. It has wanted you from the moment you stepped beneath the arches. You feel it cup your chin, tugging gently, urging you down.

You try to resist.

You remember being lost.

You remember walking for what felt like forever, waiting for a place that would let you rest. You remember being unwanted.

The swamp whispers: not anymore.

The water slips into your nose. It burns, then numbs. You cough, choke, and it rushes into your mouth, flooding your throat. You flail, but the roots hold you, stroking your legs, your arms, your ribs, tender as a lover.

You go under.

The black swallows you whole.

The water is inside you now. It stretches your lungs, fills them until they ache. But it does not kill you. You cannot die here. Instead, you feel yourself dissolving. Your breath is gone, your body slack. The water sifts through your skin like silk, teasing strands of you loose. Your fingers unravel into threads that drift into the dark. Your legs soften, your chest slackens, your organs flatten into pulp.

But your mind does not end. It lingers. It floats. You feel yourself thinning, spreading, becoming.

Faces bloom in the dark around you. Not strangers. Not others. Reflections. Versions of yourself. They drift like pale fungi, blossoming and wilting, each one bearing your hollow eyes. They mouth words you cannot hear. Maybe they are asking for help. Maybe they are welcoming you.

The water moves through you like a second bloodstream. It pulls your marrow out, sip by sip. It replaces it with something spongy, porous. You feel your bones swelling, sprouting small filaments that extend outward, weaving into the swamp itself.

You are not alone anymore.

You are part of this place.

Part of the loneliness.

Your skull softens, your jaw slackens. The water slides inside and fills you, not like drowning but like communion. Your mind flickers in the dark, but it does not go out. It spreads thinner and thinner until you are everywhere at once. In the roots. In the arches. In the faces that drift beneath the surface.

You cannot breathe.

You cannot move.

You cannot be lost anymore.

You belong.

And when at last the arches above bend low and seal shut, their ribcage closing, it feels almost like a home drawing its doors closed around you.