the lakes

AN: seungmin's piece: the language of trees

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You were not told about a new resident. 

Which is why, when your bag mysteriously vanishes from the infirmary and reappears swinging from a tree branch three hours later with all your pens uncapped and your granola bar missing, you blame the wind.

When someone swaps the labels on all your potion jars, including the one that smells like rotting moss, you figure maybe Minho’s bored again. Maybe it’s Hyunjin trying to be funny. Maybe the forest is simply messing with you.

But when you walk into your room one night to find small glowing footprints across your pillow, your snacks half-eaten, and a glittery trail of stardust on your windowsill… Yeah. Something's wrong.

“You could’ve told me there was a pixie coming,” you say to Chan the next morning over tea by the pond.

Chan blinks at you, halfway through fixing a fence railing. “Huh? Oh, you haven’t met Jisung yet? He’s only been here, like… two days. Maybe three. He doesn’t really do check-ins.”

You stare at him. “I think he’s been living in my closet.”

“That tracks.”

You find him later that evening. It’s not dramatic, really. You’re just putting out a tray of nectar-sweet tea on the sun-dappled windowsill, half as a peace offering, half as a trap, when you hear a rustle. A flash of gold dust. The faintest hic of someone trying not to giggle.

He’s no bigger than your arm, with honey-brown wings and hair that sticks up like static. His cheeks are round, his eyes mischievous, and he’s holding your granola bar like it’s a prize jewel.

“You’re not mad, right?” he blurts, even before you speak. “I was hungry and bored and your clothes are really soft. Oh! And I fixed your compass! Kinda.”

You blink. “So you were the one who put stardust in the laundry?”

“I labeled it!” he says, affronted. “Well. Somewhat.”

You squint. “You ate my tea leaves.”

“I thought they were forest snacks!”

“You rewrote my daily log to say ‘Pixie > Everyone.’”

“That one’s true though.”

You cross your arms. “You moved the stable lanterns so the dryads tripped over them.”

He grins. “Okay that was funny.”

You try not to smile. You fail. “Jisung,” you say slowly, “we have rules here.”

He hovers closer, wings buzzing faintly. “I don’t really… do rules.”

“Okay. Then we have suggestions.”

He watches you warily as you gently offer your palm, like one might coax a nervous bird. “You don’t have to hide in the laundry. Or eat tea leaves. You could just… hang out with me. Eat real food. Nap on actual cushions.”

He hesitates. Then, in a flutter of gold light, he lowers himself into your hand, warm and soft and hesitant.

“I guess,” he mumbles, already nibbling the corner of your biscuit, “if it’s you… I could maybe try the rules.”

You smile, brushing a faint smear of crumbs from his chin. “You can steal snacks. But you have to leave my bag alone, next time.”

He beams. “Deal.”

Later, he curls up on the pillow you left him, snug and sparkling. You watch him sleep, and think maybe, just maybe, this chaotic little menace is worth every missing sock.

The next morning, when you catch Jisung doing laps across the rafters of the main hall, narrowly avoiding a moth.

“You’re up early,” you call, holding a cup of raspberry-leaf tea in one hand and a rolled-up blueprint in the other.

“I never sleep past sunrise,” he replies, upside down. “There are crimes to commit.”

You snort. “Well, try committing this one, come with me.”

He narrows his eyes in suspicion but flits after you anyway, wings buzzing faintly.

You guide him through the winding back paths of the Sanctuary, deeper into the sunlit edges where the thicket grows softer and blooms curl lazily in the warm breeze. Eventually, you reach a tiny burrow tucked into the crook of an old willow tree.

It’s small, but cozy, shaped by careful hands, with a thatched door the perfect size for a pixie. Inside, you’d snuck in a nest of woven pillows, a few seed jars, a stack of pocket-sized books, and a drawer full of the linens he seemed to love so much.

You turn to him, hopeful. “What do you think?”

He hovers in silence, blinking once. Then twice. Then his expression drops.

“Oh,” he says, small. “Right. You’re kicking me out.”

“What?” You nearly drop the blueprint. “No? Jisung-”

He lands hard on the root of the tree, wings stilling. “I get it. I was annoyed. You were nice about it, but I went too far and now you want me out of your cabin.”

“No,” you say again, crouching quickly to bring your face level with him. “No, Jisung, this isn’t punishment. It’s yours. A space. Like everyone else has. I just… I thought maybe you didn’t know you could have that here. Seeing as you moved in without even talking to anyone.”

He stares at you, warily. His voice is a whisper now. “You made this… for me?”

“Yeah. So you don’t have to live in a closet.”

You reach out slowly, offering your palm again.

He doesn’t take it at first. Just looks at you, searching, as if trying to spot the catch. But there is none. There never was.

Finally, he steps forward, curls a tiny hand around two of your fingers, and says, “Okay. But I’m still stealing your snacks.”

You grin. “That’s fair.”

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