The Keeper and the Crack

The road had outlived its purpose.

Yet he had never left.

Under the scorching sun and the pouring rain.

He was on duty.

A keeper.

How many were there, really?

Being a keeper was supposed to be an honour. It sounded right.

He had seen a lot in his life, but he had never seen another keeper.

He had only heard of them. How? He kept to himself.

For centuries, he had watched these places —

the fields, the forests, the hills, and the rivers.

He remembered the times when this road was full of carts, carrying goods from the village in the valley.

Now only ruins remained, and the road had fallen quiet.

The Keeper had learned long ago that destruction rarely began with violence.

It began with a crack — small, quiet, and easy to ignore.

Over the years, people had grown afraid to use the road.

And now — it led to nowhere.

He no longer guarded the woods themselves.

He guarded what humans had left behind — their absence.

Once at noon, the Keeper’s ear caught a forgotten sound of distant steps.

Through the ground, he felt a steady rhythm of footfalls — not one, but many.

It had to be a group of people.

With a dog.

No doubt.

He waited, listening.

After a while, the group appeared at the Gates — two rocks rising from the sides of the path - the boundary of his land.

It was still half a mile to the Low Forest.

He smiled with quiet contentment: two ladies, two gentlemen. Families?

He hadn’t seen families for years, if not decades.

Young people. With crossbows, guns, protective gear and huge backpacks. They had come prepared, yet already looked tired. Understandable. The nearest settlement was about fifteen miles from the Gates.

They really did have a huge shepherd dog. Treasure hunters? Adventure lovers? Thrill seekers?

He didn’t know.

Yet he knew his duty.

They set up camp at the edge of the Low Forest.

A wise decision, he thought.

Those who entered without resting never lasted long.

It was a sunny day. Lazy clouds in a deep sky. He had always loved the serenity of this open place.

He moved around them to better understand their goals, careful enough for the dog not to sense anything. He could become a birch growing near their tent, or a bee flying around.

He had seen enough.

And he recognised the type.

They were not treasure hunters. Well, in a way, they were — but they were more than that.

They were relatives of the old settlers. All four.

He chose a name for them.

The Relatives.

He hummed to himself.

It didn’t mean anything in terms of their future. He knew how unpredictable humans could be.

Would they reach the village in the valley?

Well, not likely.

And he would do what he ought to do. As always.

He smirked.

As the group entered the Low Forest after a short rest, a mist began to gather from beneath. The place kept a heavy silence.

From time to time it was broken by an unfamiliar birdcall or the distant howl of a creature barely heard.

It lasted a while.

They moved deeper among the misty trees.

Then other sounds followed —

closer now,

sharper,

more unsettling.

A low croaking rose from the bushes.

Somewhere deeper, slow clicking replied.

And nearer still, a hiss slid through the silence,

as if some reptiles or large insects were moving not far away, unseen.

The dog went rigid. It growled and sniffed the air suspiciously.

The Relatives had clearly never heard anything like that before.

Their faces grew pale.

The sun still reached this place, yet dissolved in the fog,

veiling the danger they could sense but not see.

The keeper was nearby — being the road itself with its ancient stone surface, a leaf on a tree, or a spider in its web.

He knew the mist already looked threatening to human eyes.

It was all under his control.

“We have to get to the Verge in half an hour,” said the elder of the group.

His voice sounded nervous.

“Stay close. Keep your weapons ready,” he added quietly.

The others nodded.

The keeper had heard such words from almost everyone.

Except for the truly reckless — those who never bothered to learn anything about the place they had chosen to enter.

The Verge was an open field between the Low Forest and the Woods. It held the remains of an Outpost — long abandoned.

The Keeper remembered no one who reached that place in half a century.

What were they hoping to find there? Protection?

He sighed.

He could already sense their fear — the sweat, the cold, sticky palms.

And yet, he admired their courage in the face of their own fear.

The forest was calm without people.

It felt as if something here was not welcoming the Relatives.

He smiled faintly and nodded to himself.

The trees were gone.

Above them, the sky hung low and grey.

“What the…” said the older-looking girl.

“Holy cow…” muttered the elder man.

They reached the Verge.

The mist was thinner here, and they could see a hundred yards ahead.

The bushes and low trees were behind them, but the place was overgrown with giant grass.

The stone path marked the route correctly, yet the space no longer felt open.

This was meant to be a field.

Human-height ferns, thistles, and strange umbrella-like plants blocked their view.

“We never saw this on the maps,” the elder said, frowning.

“We’d better find the Outpost quickly,” said the younger lady. Her head jerked toward the rattling sounds from somewhere in the distance.

They had seen nothing dangerous yet.

Still, whatever moved beyond the grass did nothing to reassure them.

The group moved on.

Luckily, the path was still visible.

Long ago, it had been a stone road — wide enough for two carts to pass side by side. It had been built intentionally, to ensure easy access to the Wealthy Valley. The valley village mined minerals and grew Moonplums that only this land could nourish. What it could export, it did — and with the rest it was self-sufficient.

Those times were almost forgotten.

Now only a narrow stone path remained.

The distant howls and roars seemed to draw closer, urging the wanderers forward.

And as they moved deeper, something else began to happen — their fear grew out of proportion.

Thoughts turned suspicious.

Danger appeared behind every shadow.

Accusations formed easily, almost on their own.

“It was your stupid idea to come here,” the elder man snapped at the younger one.

“Me?” the younger replied. “It was her suggestion,” he said, pointing at his wife.

“Are you crazy? I never even wanted to come here. It’s all your fault — all three of you,” she whispered sharply.

Quarrelling in hushed voices, they reached the Outpost.

If they had imagined a fortress, disappointment was all that remained.

Built of wood and softstone, it had not resisted time.

Nothing had lasted.

The ruins looked even more frightening than the forest itself.

The Keeper grew curious.

Could they overcome this trial?

Then a new sound reached them — rising from low to high, carrying a hypnotic rhythm that froze the body and emptied the mind.

The dog’s fur bristled. It growled and whimpered at the same time.

“What’s that?” the younger woman asked, voice trembling.

Silence answered.

“I’m done. I can’t lead you there,” the elder whispered at last.

The Relatives didn’t dare to make any other step forward to the Woods.

They started to retreat —

slowly at first,

then with growing urgency.

Then, once they reached the Low Forest,

they ran, silently, desperate to escape.

The howl grew stronger and closer.

And other sounds added, not promising any good.

The Relatives ran, stumbled, fell, rised and ran again, supporting each other.

And when they saw the exit from the Forest,

everything stopped.

The wild sounds felt retreating

farther and farther to the woods.

They caught their breath only in the open place.

Then they headed back toward the edge of that cursed land.

Quickly. As if the danger were still very real.

Before long, they passed through the Gates and disappeared.

The Keeper watched them.

He knew they were not coming back.

Forever.

Weeks passed.

The place remained quiet.

The Keeper remembered the incident with quiet satisfaction.

People were not as strong, nor as brave, as they believed themselves to be.

Rumours would spread.

Few would dare to come close again.

But at the end of summer, on a hot morning, the Keeper felt a familiar vibration in the ground.

A lone girl.

Well dressed. Lightly equipped.

He scanned her as he always did when she passed the Gates and entered the Low Forest without hesitation.

She was not a treasure hunter.

She was not even a relative of the settlers.

He studied her with curiosity.

And what he found surprised him.

The girl was a descendant of the early pioneers of this land.

Pioneer Girl — the name settled in his mind.

The Keeper knew his duty, as he had for centuries.

He would watch her. As he did with the Relatives.

She was unique. Yet, she was just another human. The same as others who bothered this place with their approach.

She walked alone, gazing with delight at sunrays slipping through the haze.

Many trees here were nothing more than dark, leafless pillars rising from the mist.

Others still held their green crowns.

Light threaded its way through both — through naked limbs and living leaves alike.

She heard the howl of a distant beast — and smiled.

She listened to strange local birds and tried to spot them through the mist.

When the roars grew closer and the heavy, reptilian sounds surrounded her, she peered into the bushes with curiosity.

The Keeper was surprised.

He had underestimated her.

Her armour was light. Her weapons were few.

What was she hoping for?

He used more of his power as she moved through the Woods. She wasn’t scared. She didn’t even slow down reaching the Verge and the Outpost.

From time to time, she took out her sketchbook and drew whatever caught her attention.

No modern tools.

As if she belonged to another time.

The Pioneer Girl reached the village ruins in the early evening.

The sun was still above the horizon and its radiance painted blue sky pearl and pink over the trees.

She walked among the fallen structures, touching moss-covered walls, as if listening for something beneath the stone.

The Keeper watched her with quiet admiration.

She truly was a descendant of the pioneers —

those driven by dreams rather than fear, those who sought friendship even with the deadliest creatures, those skilled enough not to fear what they tried to understand.

She decided to set a tent right at the place that used to be the main square more than a century ago.

Her moves were confident and accurate.

As if she truly belonged here.

As if this place was an incomplete puzzle without her.

The Keeper knew he could do something more to make an effect.

And he did something he had never done before.

He spoke to her.

From everywhere.

“Hi,” came the voice.

She froze for a heartbeat, then answered calmly, “Hi. Who are you?”

“The Keeper of this place,” he said. “No one has reached it in a century. My respect. And my apologies if your journey was not comfortable.”

“It was all right,” she replied. “But where are you?”

“Everywhere.”

“Can I see you?”

“If you insist… Look up. At the stone.”

He saw her finally notice him — a tiny figure against the vast world, softly glowing.

To him, she appeared immense, like all humans.

“You are tiny,” she said softly. “And beautiful. I thought you would be gigantic.”

“Do not judge by size,” he replied.

“You are no larger than other humans. But your understanding of this world — and your bond with it — reaches far beyond theirs.”

She smiled softly at the unexpected compliment.

“Why weren’t you scared?” he asked curiously.

“I was, sometimes,” she said. “And when I reached the Verge I felt as if it this place made me strong, confident and sensitive, more than ever before”.

The Keeper nodded in surprise: “It doesn’t make good or bad, it just amplifies the most of inner you.”

“I also noticed the creatures along the path were turned away from me. They looked… monstrous,” she smiled. “But I felt they were guarding me — from something outside.”

The Keeper laughed. “I’ve never seen a human smarter.”

They remained silent for a while and he continued:

“My task has always been to protect humans. These places are not always welcoming. The mist repels darker beings. And my army… they may look frightening, but they exist to protect.”

A giant centipede emerged from the bushes, its dark blue-grey armour glinting in the fading light. The girl laughed and gently stroked it.

“I learned early how to see through mist and foliage,” she said. “To recognise things as they are, not as they seem.”

A dark-furred tiger with pale stripes approached and lay quietly at her feet.

She scratched behind his ear. The tiger purred.

Others stayed where they were, unseen but present.

“But what happened to the village?” she asked. “There’s so much sadness in this place.”

“When the pioneers came,” the Keeper said, “they were curious, like you. They took what they needed — and gave back. The settlers were different. They took more and more. Balance was broken. Nature grew wilder. Creatures that once ignored humans began to approach them.

I called the mist to protect. I called my army to guard, believing they would change. But people grew so distant from nature that they mistook protection for hostility. They fled — family by family, house by house — until none were left.”

“My grandfather taught me to listen to nature,” she said quietly. “Even then, most people chose higher fences instead of understanding.”

“I regret that I failed,” the Keeper said.

“You didn’t,” she answered. “This is what happens when we forget our roots.”

The girl paused.

“Will we ever learn?” she asked, as if speaking to the universe itself.

The Keeper smiled instead of answering.

A warm morning came quietly.

He watched her wake, step out of the tent, and dress.

She stood for a while, barefoot on the stone, letting the place wake around her. The mist was thinner now. The forest breathed slowly, as if it had slept well.

The Keeper had been there all night. Watching was his way of resting.

“You slept,” he said — not as a question, but with something close to relief.

“Yes,” she smiled. “Strangely well.”

They were silent for a moment.

“I had dreams,” she said at last. “As if this place was… teaching me. Or reminding me of something.”

He did not interrupt.

“When I woke up,” she continued, “I knew I couldn’t stay. Not because I don’t belong here — but because I do.”

The Keeper showed a hint of surprise.

“There are places like this where I come from,” she added, almost apologetically. “Not forests. But the same fear. The same fences. People turning away from what frightens them instead of listening.”

She looked down the road.

“I used to think it was anger. Or greed. Now I think it’s fear that no one wants to admit.”

He nodded.

“And fear,” she continued, “doesn’t destroy everything at once.

It begins with a crack — small, quiet, and easy to miss.

A place where warmth escapes,

where trust thins,

where insecurity takes root.”

The Pioneer Girl fell silent for a moment, then continued:

“A crack doesn’t mean something is ruined.

It means it needs care.”

“And you?” he asked gently. “What will you do?”

She adjusted the strap of her pack.

“Try to speak. Try to listen. Start small. With those who are still willing.”

The Keeper did not answer right away.

They both sensed that their bond would grow. They did not know how, or when — only that it would.

When she finally walked toward the Gates and they waved goodbye, he felt something shift — not in the land, but in the absence he guarded.

The road was no longer empty.

It knew where it led.

And it was open both ways.