The Hunger-Walker’s Song

by John Wallis

Listen, listen— for the forest remembers.

Before the deep cold, before the white silence, there was a boy with warm hands and a name spoken easily.

He walked where snow had not yet learned to bury the world.

Listen, listen— for the forest remembers.

Winter came without knocking. Winter came without mercy. It took the paths first, then the animals, then the breath from every shared bowl.

Hunger sat beside the boy like a quiet friend and asked nothing at all.

Hunger waits. Hunger listens. Hunger learns your name.

When the forest took one life before the boy could stop it, the world leaned closer.

Snow fell heavier. Silence grew gnashing teeth.

The boy told himself: Just this once. Just to live. Just to see another dawn.

Hunger nodded and opened the door.

Bones stretched. Skin thinned. The body learned a taller language.

Antlers rose toward the sky— not a crown, but a warning written in bone.

The boy screamed, and the forest answered with echoes that did not know his voice.

This is how hunger walks. This is how hunger stands upright.

Still, the boy remembered.

He remembered hands passing food. He remembered firelight. He remembered laughter warming the dark.

Inside the Wendigo, those memories burned like coals— hot enough to hurt, but too small to save him.

Hunger eats. Memory aches. The forest watches.

When the Hunger-Walker circled the village, it did not rush. It did not strike.

It traced the edges, slow and careful, as if reading a story it once belonged to.

The firelight trembled. The people held one another closer.

Do not follow. Do not invite. Do not forget who you are.

A mother sang.

Not loudly. Not bravely. But truly.

Her song carried warmth where her offerings could not. Her song carried a name the forest had not yet forgot.

The Hunger-Walker stopped.

Songs remember what hunger cannot.

Spring came. Snow loosened its grip. Life returned with cautious steps.

But hunger stayed.

Not because winter lingered— but because some choices do not melt.

The Hunger-Walker turned away, deeper into trees that knew his shape now.

Winter ends. Lessons remain.

So listen when elders speak. Listen when bowls are shared. Listen when winter asks its question.

Because hunger always asks again.

Will you stand alone? Or will you stand together?

And somewhere beyond the last fire, a tall shadow still moves— not hunting, not forgiven, but remembered.

Listen, listen— for the forest remembers.

And now, so do you.