Short stories by Mace Styx.

Standing against the trunk of the oak tree was a man. His hair was silver, but not in a way that made him look old - it glinted faintly in the patches of light that punch through the crown of branches above. For a moment, Tansy wondered if maybe her eyes were playing tricks on her. That often happened when she was tired; she’d see something out of the corner of her eye and think it was something entirely different. When she blinked, though, he was still standing there, with a concerned look on his face.

“Who are you?” Tansy asked, feeling grubby and ridiculous, squatting in the middle of a dark woods with a strange man staring at her.

The man smiled.

“You may call me Larchis,” he replied, his voice low and smooth, reminding her of a river. “What are you doing in my woods?”

“You own these woods?” Tansy asked, in disbelief. She passed here nearly every day on her way back from school and she had never seen him before. She would certainly have remembered.

“In a manner of speaking,” Larchis replied with a little tilt of his head, as if he found her bewilderment amusing. As he did, a strand of hair shifted and Tansy inhaled sharply as she spotted it . The tip of his ear poking out from beneath the curtain of hair, pointed like a cat’s.

“You’re- “she spluttered, hardly daring to believe it. A part of her almost didn’t want to. “You’re real? Faeries are real?”

“Of course we are,” Larchis replied, blinking, surprised she even had to ask. “You knew that. How many times have you dreamed of us? Searched for us when you were smaller? You saw us before. But then you stopped looking.”