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    Summary

    Every year Alastor told himself he wouldn’t come back. That, if he hadn’t found any answers by now, there were none to find. Every year he told himself he didn’t want to see Anthony again either. 

    He drew to a halt at the edge of a ring of evenly spaced mushrooms deep within the forest. Staring at its center always left a strange ache in his chest. A hollow feeling, like everything inside him had been ripped out at the root. Like, somehow, whatever lay within the fairy circle was more real than he would ever be.

    But there was nothing there. Nothing had ever been there except for himself and Anthony the day they’d been found within it. They’d been children then, confused, afraid, and speaking a language no one understood.

    So why did he return every year, as surely as if he were following a siren’s call?

    Language:
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