Dark forest

Deep in the forest where light dares not even approach, he stands; neither man nor monster, but something in between, something woven together by time and oblivion. An old sackcloth, scarred with coarse, uneven stitches, covers his face; not to hide, but to scream what lies beneath. Only one eye, like a lone lamp in the fog, stares out through the torn fabric—a look that neither asks nor begs; it only sees, and the sight is enough to catch your breath.