The Bigshot's Superstar Wife - Chapter 150

Chapter 150: A Song to Hear
The night was cold, and the village lay in silence beneath a blanket of darkness. A thin layer of mist curled around the wooden houses, clinging to the rooftops like a ghostly veil.

The wind whispered through the trees, low and haunting, yet the night seemed calm, ordinary in every way. Then came the sound of soft footsteps.

A small boy, no older than seven, crept quietly from his home. His hair was tousled from sleep, and he rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.

He had woken suddenly, feeling the urge to pee. The outhouse wasn’t far, just beyond the back fence, near the row of garden plots.

As he shuffled through the cold night air, he noticed something strange, a song. It was faint at first, barely more than a breath carried by the wind.

Yet the longer he stood there, the clearer it became, a sweet, lilting melody that seemed to dance just beyond his sight.

It wasn’t a song he recognized, yet it felt familiar, like a tune he had once heard in a forgotten dream.

The boy stood still for a moment, listening. His eyes darted toward the dark outline of the forest that loomed at the edge of the village.

The song seemed to come from there. But when he squinted into the trees, he saw nothing, only shadows shifting with the wind.

In the morning, the boy told his mother about the song. She chuckled softly and ruffled his hair.

“You probably heard the wind,” she said. “The trees sing when the air turns cold.”

The boy believed her and thought little more of it, until the next night, when he heard the song again.

This time, it was clearer, stronger, and seemed to come closer. He looked out his window and swore he saw something move at the tree line, but when he blinked, the shape was gone.

Days passed, and more children began to whisper about the strange song.

They spoke of hearing it late at night, a sweet, mesmerizing tune that lingered in their minds long after they woke.

Some claimed they had even seen a figure in the distance, a shadow that swayed like a dancer through the trees.

The adults, however, heard nothing. Even the drunkards who stumbled home late and slept in the open streets never reported hearing a sound.

The villagers brushed it off as childhood imagination, a passing story that would soon be forgotten.

But curiosity has a way of creeping into young minds. One boy, a bold and restless child named Tomas, couldn’t let the mystery go.

He had heard the song more than once and believed he could find whoever was singing it.

One night, while the rest of the village slept, Tomas slipped out of bed and crept toward the forest.

The air was colder than usual, and the wind stung his face. The village seemed frozen in time, not even the usual bark of a dog or the croak of a frog disturbed the silence.

Tomas hesitated at the edge of the trees. The song drifted toward him, soft and sweet. Without thinking, he stepped into the forest.

The trees closed around him, their twisted branches arching like skeletal arms. The song grew louder, clearer, yet still distant, always just out of reach.

Tomas walked deeper, his steps crunching against dry leaves. The darkness pressed in, and the cold seemed to seep into his bones. Still, he kept walking.

He returned the next morning, sleepy but unharmed. He told his friends about the strange journey, about how the song had led him deeper than he had intended to go.

He hadn’t found the singer, but he swore he had seen footprints, small and bare, leading away from the path. His friends hung on his every word, some excited, others frightened.

The adults overheard the tale and warned the children never to wander alone at night.

“The forest is dangerous,” they reminded them. “Wolves, snakes… things that don’t need to be seen.”

Yet Tomas didn’t listen. The song called to him, and on the second night, he returned to the forest.

This time, he claimed the footprints were clearer, smaller than before, like those of a child. He followed them deeper, past fallen logs and crooked stones.

The song swirled around him, and for a moment, Tomas thought he had seen someone standing among the trees, a figure with long hair and pale skin.

He called out, but no one answered. On the third night, Tomas went again.

He told his friends that the figure had grown clearer, closer, as if waiting for him to come further. His eyes gleamed with excitement as he spoke, thrilled by the mystery.

The other children shivered. Some warned him to stop. Others begged him to take them with him. But Tomas refused. He said the figure was waiting just for him.

The adults grew angry. The village chief scolded Tomas in front of the entire village, warning him never to step into the forest again.

“You’ve tested fate enough,” the elder said sternly. Tomas lowered his head and nodded, but his thoughts were already elsewhere.

The song was calling him, stronger, sweeter than before, and he couldn’t resist. On the fourth night, Tomas slipped away once more.

The wind howled through the village, rattling shutters and shaking fences. His mother woke just before dawn to find his bed empty and his shoes missing.

The villagers gathered, torches in hand, and followed Tomas’s footprints toward the forest. They called his name over and over, their voices breaking against the silence.

Hours passed, and the search widened, but Tomas was gone.

There were no signs of struggle, no footprints beyond his own, nothing to show where he had gone or what had taken him.

The villagers scoured the area for days, but no trace of Tomas was ever found. The loss shook the village deeply, and whispers filled the air.

Some believed wild beasts had taken him. Others claimed he had fallen into one of the unseen ravines that riddled the forest floor.

But those who had heard the song knew better.

The children whispered among themselves, swearing they had seen Tomas standing at the edge of the trees just days before, smiling, silent, and barefoot.

The elders warned the village to stay inside after dark. The children were forbidden to leave their homes at night, and the forest became a place of quiet dread.

But no one could forget the song. Even when the winds howled and the trees groaned, some swore they could still hear that haunting melody, faint, distant, yet always present.

The voice lingered on the air like a cold breath, calling for those foolish enough to follow.