There’s something in the woods, they say it’s been there for years. It’s older than the house that stands on the land, older than the road that passes by. It blends in with the morning fog, it stares through windows in the dead of night, it wears a mask with hollow, empty eyes. It’s a mysterious figure on the edge of the treeline, spoken of in hushed whispers around campfires, so as not to call its attention.
There is a ghost in the woods, and he’s been there for years. He says his name is Fion. He’s older than the house they built on his land, and he's older than the road they paved through it. His mask is made of birch wood. He’ll come to the porch if you wait for him long enough.
There wasn't much Cedar could say about the person in the woods. He was quiet, and curious, maybe a little invasive at times, but he was sweet, and he took care of the land in a way that Cedar couldn't. He said his name was Fion, and the forest thrived when he was around. Trails stayed clear, flowers bloomed in vivid colors, the forest creatures stayed spry and healthy.
Fion was a good neighbor, and when you could catch him he was good conversation. He was dry, and a little unsettling at the wrong moments, but he was kind. Cedar could get used to a neighbor out here.
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It was December, close to Christmas. But the air was warm and light like late summer. Cedar stared out over the field in the darkness, nothing between him and the horizon. There wasn’t a sound around him but the rustle of the cool wind over the tall grass. He looked up to the sky overhead, unnaturally vibrant and dazzling stars danced in constellations he didn’t recognize.
A screen door swung shut behind him. He turned to see a house standing alone, old wood and a faded red door cast in the welcoming orange glow of a buzzing porch light.
An old man settled into a rocking chair with a mug in each hand. He set one down on the floor next to him, and the other on a small side table beside a rickety porch swing.
He didn’t look at Cedar.
Cedar made his way to the porch steps.
“Is that for me?” He asked, fingers following chipped paint and splintered wood.
“If y’ want it.” The old man replied.
Cedar looked into the mug on the end table; steam drifted out of pitch black coffee. It smelled like it’d been made over a campfire. Somehow, that unfamiliar night sky swirled through it like cream.
“Am I asleep right now?” Cedar asked.
“I’m sure you are, somewhere.” The old man answered.
Cedar looked at the old man, then back down to his coffee. He sat down on the porch swing and pulled his feet up under him.
Neither one of them spoke for a while. Cedar watched the empty field in silence. The old man lifted his mug off the floor, took a sip, and set it back down.
“Y’ come to see me just to sit?” He asked.
Cedar looked over at the old man. He still didn’t look at Cedar.
“…I don’t know.” Cedar answered after a moment. He pulled a blanket off the back of the swing to cover his legs. “Nothing important enough to be here.”
“Must feel important.” The old man answered. He lifted his mug off the ground, took another sip, and set it down again. “T’come all the way out here.”
The silence stretched on for a moment longer.
“I just don’t wanna waste your time with it.”
“I ain’t got nowhere to be.”
Cedar looked down at his hands, at the dark hair just starting to creep up the backs of his wrists. He wondered if people still thought his hands looked feminine.
“I just…” He started, folding his hands over the top of the blanket. “What if this isn’t right?”
The old man didn’t say anything. Cedar didn’t want him to.
“I mean, I just started T and I… I mean I’ve wanted this for so long. But now that I have it I just feel…” He hesitated. Self hatred felt heavy on his tongue. It felt wrong to admit. “I feel gross. I feel awkward, and clunky, and my facial hair hurts like hell when it’s growing in. And I’m self conscious all the time. I’m just realizing how I’ve never, really related to people before this. It’s like I’m starting from scratch. It’s like I’m a kid again. I feel too young.”
The old man raised his eyebrows. One leg crossed over the other and he reached down for his mug again.
“I mean. I’m 19.” Cedar added sheepishly. “I am young. I know that. It just feels like no one else is as young as me. It feels like everyone else knows where they’re going. And–”
Cedar gripped the blanket tighter. His voice tightened in his throat. “I know I’m not wrong. But what if I get to the end, like, five years down the line and I don’t like it? Then I’m like, halfway through my twenties? Halfway through my twenties and I have to start over, I have to figure out something else.”
He looked out over the old man’s land. Darkness swallowed the landscape only a few yards past the porch. It felt like they were the only people alive.
“I just, I know I’d never go back. I know I’d never go back. I don’t want to detransition, or change anything, it's just…” His voice was soft and small, his hands gripped the blanket tighter to keep from shaking. “It’s hard right now. What if it doesn’t get better?”
He lifted the collar of his shirt to wipe his eyes, looking up to see he was in the passenger seat of the old man’s truck. It was bright out, and the windows were down. The wind was blowing noisily through the cab, and the sun was setting behind them in a way that it glared off the face of the radio and kept Cedar from checking the time. The old man drove with his hands at the top of the steering wheel.
“Does it feel right?” The old man asked.
Cedar blinked, looking up at him. The old man’s hat cast a stark shadow over his eyes. Cedar noticed the cigarette hanging between his fingers.
Cedar’s voice threatened to waver if he spoke again too soon, but he cleared his throat and spoke anyway. “Uh. I guess. Yeah. It feels right… where are we going?” He fumbled for a switch for his window beside him, finally looking over to see the crank sitting lower on the door.
“Woah,” Cedar wiped his eyes, leaning down to roll up the window manually. “How old is this truck? You keep it running yourself?”
“She doesn’t give me much trouble. My boys take care of her when she does though.”
He didn’t answer the other questions. Cedar decided not to press it. He rolled up the window and stopped halfway, just enough to keep the wind from drowning out the conversation. He leaned his head against the doorframe, watching the road curve and straighten in front of them as they drove.
“Where are we going?” He asked again.
“Just wanna show you something.” The old man answered.
“Can I lean my seat back ‘til we get there?”
The old man gave a hum of approval. Cedar searched along the side of his seat for the lever and let his seat fall all the way back. He was standing again when he opened his eyes–this time at the quarry where he used to spend his summers. He hadn’t been back since his senior year. Transitioning had made it too uncomfortable–his binders never mixed well with swimming, and he could never shake the feelings of strangers’ eyes on him.
This time, no one noticed him, he stood like a ghost in the shallows of the water. People around him screamed and laughed and shared drinks out of cheap looking coolers. Music echoed off the walls of the quarry. Cedar could feel the sun on his chest.
“How’s that feel?” The old man’s voice asked beneath the noise.
Cedar reached a hand up, closing his eyes and letting his fingers spread flat over his bare chest. He felt the ridges of new scars, not yet healed and not yet ready for the sunlight, warm under his fingertips and soaked in light against some future surgeon’s wishes.
“It feels right.” He answered.
He opened his eyes again to find himself back on the old man’s porch. The field in front of him was filled with the soft blinking of floating fireflies, cicadas cried distantly, filling the space between Cedar and the horizon
He looked over his shoulder, the old man sat in his rocking chair with his empty mug in his hands. The porch swing rocked gently in the breeze.
“I have to go back soon.” Cedar said.
“Sooner or later.” Time replied.
Cedar walked back to the porch swing, having a seat on the edge. The fireflies danced over the tall grass.
