Shrill and manic, that strange cry, as if desire itself had taken shape, was like a cold wind slipping down a collar in winter.
It made Tom and Mike stop their conversation instantly.
Their bodies went stiff. Their pupils trembled as they abruptly looked back, pressing their heads even lower behind the haystack while their tense gazes shot toward the darkness in the distance.
The forest deep in the night was like a crouching giant beast, breathing heavily and slowly. The dense air drawn into their lungs carried the cold, damp scent of earth and trees.
The cries of night owls and the chirping of unknown insects still echoed in the depths of the night. They were no different from usual, yet in that moment, to the two men, they became exceptionally clear and sharp.
The wheat that had been planted not long ago had already sprouted, swaying gently in the evening wind.
In the past, Tom might have remarked to Uncle Mike beside him that this year's crops were growing well, and that perhaps they might have a good harvest.
But now, with his head unconsciously lowered and his breathing slowed, he focused all his attention on what he was staring at: beyond the wheat field, the towering woods that stood silently at the end of his vision, like shadows in deep water.
His heart pounded harder and harder, and a deep unease wandered through him for no reason, making him feel as though he could sense that within those profound shadows, something ominous was quietly brewing.
At first, what Tom heard was only the whimper of the night wind blowing through the treetops, and the soft rustle of branches and leaves brushing together.
But as his attention focused, those even fainter, finer, rustling sounds—strange noises like countless insects