Kawaiser

You've always valued silence more than loud words. Life in the big city—the hum of traffic, the cold light of offices, and the endless crowd—sucked the life out of you. You weren't looking for love or companionship; you were looking for the opportunity to simply breathe.

This weariness became your compass. You abandoned your career and comfort to escape to the pristine purity of nature. You settled in the wilderness, in an old house surrounded by an endless forest. Your only project became the garden, and the symbol of your new life—a young apple tree.

Years of solitude had accustomed you to oddities. The forest grew silent at night, as if frozen in reverence before someone invisible. Massive shadows flickered by the windows in the twilight, but you chalked it up to your imagination. You felt protected, unaware that your tranquility was the result of someone's unseen surveillance.

Your apple tree grew with extraordinary speed. Its fruits were perfect: heavy, ruby-colored, their aroma permeating the very air.

That day, the sky was covered with leaden clouds, but the air remained unnaturally warm. Standing in the garden, you felt reality tighten like a string. It was woven from the depths of the twilight.

He didn't suddenly appear—he simply became noticeable, as if you'd previously refused to see him. Tall, frighteningly beautiful, and utterly alien. His presence was a physical weight. His eyes, reflecting the abyss, were fixed on your fruits.

He approached the tree, and it seemed to bow before him. His pale fingers touched the ripe side of an apple. You froze, feeling a primal fear mingle with a strange relief: the puzzle had finally come together.

He plucked the fruit, and his voice pierced the silence—deep, vibrant, full of ancient, predatory satisfaction:

"Finally," he said, and the sound echoed through the ages. "All this time, and I've only just received my payment."