The voice came first as a whisper.
Not an echo. Not the wind.
But something deeper—something older.
"Wake up."
When Hulio opened his eyes, the world was no longer the same.
There was no sky.
Only massive roots hanging from a dark ceiling, weaving into a shapeless canopy. The ground beneath him was damp and warm, like the chest of a living creature. Greenish light seeped from moss crawling over stone. Mist hovered low, reluctant to rise.
He tried to sit up. His body felt strange. Stiff. Cold.
But not from injury—more like... the body wasn't entirely his.
"This is a dream," he whispered. His voice small. Trembling.
He pinched his arm. Nothing happened.
He tugged at his hair, slammed his hands into the ground, shook his face.
No use.
"This is a dream… this is a dream…!"
He stood with effort and began to run. Anywhere.
As long as it was away from the stillness.
The roots—like ancient snakes—twisted across the path. Moss gripped his soles like wet teeth.
Every step echoed faintly, as if in a cavern.
Then he stopped.
A sound—a twig snapping. Behind him.
Hulio turned.
A small figure stood in the mist.
At first glance, it looked like a child.
But its eyes glowed green.
Its body was covered in moss and soil, and from its pores oozed the scent of old roots.
It didn't walk.
It floated.
"Wh—" Hulio tried to speak, but his voice was swallowed by the silence.
"The abandoned… has been chosen," said the figure.
Its voice didn't pass through the air.
It pressed directly into his mind.
"I'm not part of this! I'm not… whatever you are! I'm human!" Hulio stepped back. His breath came in quick bursts.
"I don't believe in the supernatural. This is an illusion. A hallucination!"
But the world didn't waver.
And the creature kept staring, its eyes blinking slowly, as if judging.
"I don't belong to your world. I'm just… a hiker who got lost!"
The creature—Mistkeeper, the name suddenly surfaced in Hulio's mind—did not answer.
From its hand, a light began to form—a living pearl, small, pulsing like a heart.
Hulio clutched his head, shivering.
"NO! I don't want to be part of this!"
And then… the memories hit.
"Are they looking for me…?"
His mother's and father's faces flashed in his mind.
His mother's ever-gentle eyes, his father's quiet pride—though rarely expressed in words.
"Mom… Dad… find me. Please find me. I'm still alive! Send help. Send a helicopter. Contact the president. Didn't Dad used to be a military hero? Use your influence! I'm here! Come get me...!"
Tears rolled down without restraint.
"But Grandpa… he won't care. He hates me. I'm just a burden to him. He's probably glad I vanished.
But Mom… Mom wouldn't stay quiet. No. She's not the type to give up."
His body trembled.
"I could go insane here…"
The light from the creature's hand drifted closer.
It touched Hulio's chest.
And the world collapsed… inward.
He saw: roots growing in an instant, earth splitting open, sky screaming.
Rivers of red flowed slowly.
Hollow-eyed beings howled in the darkness.
This wasn't a world.
This was the breath of something ancient—something refusing to die.
Hulio screamed.
But the sound echoed only within himself.
He tried to resist.
But his body… accepted it.
Slowly.
Unwillingly.
Hulio's chest quivered, and from his skin emerged glowing root-like symbols—dim, but alive.
"I'm still… human, right?"
There was no answer.
Only mist.
---
In Brasília…
In a modest home, a husband and wife sat in the living room.
The mother stared at her laptop screen—full of unread emails and unanswered messages.
Her face was pale.
Her hands shook.
"Some say he fell. Others say he's just… lost. But no one really knows," her voice cracked.
The father stood by the window.
"I've contacted the embassy. But bureaucracy is slow.
And we're running out of funds."
"If they won't help… we'll go ourselves."
"I'll find a way."
"He's not just a child.
He's the reason we keep going."
Silence.
Then, a notification popped up:
"Update: still no sign. SAR team suspends night search due to storm."
The mother wept silently.
But she began searching for flight tickets.
They would not wait anymore.
---
On Mount Rinjani…
Fog rolled thick from the valley, burying the hiking trail.
The wind howled.
Temperatures plunged.
The SAR team spread out a soaked map under the beam of a headlamp.
Day four of the search.
No new tracks.
Drones grounded.
Radios jammed by interference.
"He was last seen near Segara Anak Lake trail. Then veered north," said a team member.
"How can the trail just… stop?" a volunteer asked.
The answer hung in the air.
No one dared say it out loud:
Sometimes the mountain hides what it does not wish to be found.
Online, #FindHulio was trending worldwide.
"Four days and no real progress?"
"He's not just a hiker—he's a good person!"
"We demand serious action from the Indonesian government!"
"Brazilian embassy, you must intervene!"
Petitions surged.
Global influencers weighed in.
International media started framing the story as more than just a missing person—it was now about accountability.
On the trail, a volunteer found something among the wet roots.
A shoe.
Only one.
Dirty.
Wrapped in roots rising from the ground like hands gripping a secret.
"This… belongs to Hulio," the volunteer said quietly.
And from within the mist, real or not, came a whisper:
"The forsaken… is not always alone."
---
Announcement from the First Branch of the Family…
On the seventh day, when the mist refused to lift and the weather stayed unforgiving, a press conference was held by Hulio's extended family.
A well-dressed man stood before the microphones, flanked by lawyers and relatives.
"With great sadness, we announce that the search for Hulio dos Santos has been temporarily suspended.
Extreme weather, hazardous terrain, and technical difficulties have made continued rescue efforts impossible at this time."
Reporters shouted questions.
Some in the public were furious.
"Does this mean Hulio is presumed dead?"
The man lowered his gaze and replied:
"Yes. Based on recommendations from the SAR team and local authorities, we declare Hulio as 'missing and presumed deceased.'"
The news spread like wildfire.
Online platforms erupted in outrage and grief.
At Hulio's parents' home, his mother screamed in anguish.
His father held her hand tightly.
They refused to accept it.
"He's not dead. I know he's not.
I know my son is still alive!"
And deep in the heart of Rinjani, beneath roots and mist,
a boy still breathed.
Still endured.
Still… changed.