Child Claims She Played With a “Gentle Hairy Man” – A Real Encounter With Bigfoot
The Day of the Threshold
It was a Wednesday morning when the boundaries we had so carefully maintained began to dissolve. I was on the deck with my coffee, watching Ethan play like always. The air was thick with the scent of damp cedar and the low, rhythmic hum of the forest.
At exactly 10:15 a.m., the Bigfoot emerged. But he didn’t stop in the shadows of the hemlocks. He took one step, then another, his massive feet padding silently onto the manicured grass of our backyard.
“Daddy, look!” Ethan shouted, his voice a mix of exhilaration and awe. “He’s coming to visit!”
My heart hammered against my ribs. I stood up, my hand instinctively reaching for the railing. Every survival instinct I possessed screamed at me to grab Ethan and run. But then I looked at the creature. He had stopped about fifteen feet from the tree line—well within our property. He slowly sat down, crossing his massive legs like a titan in repose. He made himself smaller, less threatening, and tilted his head toward Ethan.
“Stay right there, Ethan,” I said, my voice remarkably steady. “Don’t go any closer.”
“I won’t, Daddy. He just wants to see the castle,” Ethan replied. He had been building a fortress out of plastic blocks.
The creature—whom Ethan had started calling Goliath—reached into a patch of clover near his feet. With fingers as thick as sausages but with the precision of a jeweler, he plucked a single, tiny yellow wildflower. He didn’t throw it. He placed it on the grass and then pushed it forward with one finger, sliding it toward Ethan like a peace offering.
The Mirror of Innocence
Over the next few days, the interaction became a study in primate behavior. I realized that Goliath wasn’t just watching Ethan; he was learning from him.
When Ethan hopped on one foot, Goliath would shift his weight, his massive muscles rippling under his mahogany fur as if he were contemplating the physics of the movement. When Ethan laughed, Goliath would pull back his lips—not in a snarl, but in a primitive mimicry of a smile, revealing large, flat, herbivore-like teeth.
Sarah joined me on the deck more often now. She brought her sketchbook, capturing the moments that the cameras couldn’t quite translate. “Look at his brow,” she whispered one afternoon. “He isn’t just a ‘beast,’ David. He’s a witness. He’s been watching us for years, and Ethan is the first human who didn’t look at him with a gun or a camera lens first.”
It hit me then: to Goliath, Ethan was a bridge. A version of humanity that hadn’t yet been corrupted by the need to conquer or categorize.
The Warning
The peace was shattered on the eighteenth day.
It started with a sound from deeper in the Olympic National Forest—a sharp, mechanical whine. Loggers. A new tract of land, less than three miles from our boundary, was being cleared. The sound of the chainsaws seemed to cause Goliath physical pain. He stood up abruptly, his hair bristling, and let out a sound I will never forget. It wasn’t the “happy song” he shared with Ethan; it was a guttural, chest-thumping roar that shook the windows of our house.
Ethan scrambled back toward the deck, terrified. “Daddy, why is he angry? Did I do something wrong?”
“No, champ,” I said, scooping him up. “It’s not you.”
Goliath looked at the forest, then back at us. His eyes were no longer gentle; they were frantic. He pointed a massive hand toward the north—toward the sound of the saws—and then made a striking gesture, slamming his fist into his palm. Then, he looked at Ethan, let out a soft, mournful huff, and vanished into the brush with a speed that was terrifying. He didn’t wave.
The Departure
We didn’t see him for three days. The forest felt empty, the silence no longer peaceful but heavy with a sense of loss. Ethan sat by the window for hours, his drawings of “Fur-Man” piled up on the sill.
On the fourth night, a storm rolled in off the Pacific, lashing the peninsula with rain. I woke up at 3:00 a.m. to a rhythmic tapping on the siding of the house—right outside Ethan’s bedroom window.
I grabbed my flashlight and ran outside, Sarah close behind me. The beam of light cut through the rain and landed on the grass. Goliath was there. He was soaked, his fur matted and dark. He wasn’t sitting. He stood tall, looking toward the house.
In his hand, he held something large. As we watched, he walked to Ethan’s swing set and hung something from the crossbar. He turned his head toward the window where Ethan was now peering out, gave one final, slow wave, and walked into the storm.
When the sun rose, we found what he had left. It was a “doll” made of twisted cedar bark and bound with long strands of coarse, dark hair. It was a crude but unmistakable likeness of a small boy.
Beside it lay a pile of the rarest forest finds: translucent river agates, a perfect elk shed, and a handful of mountain berries that shouldn’t have been in season.
The Secret We Keep
That was three months ago. Goliath hasn’t returned. The logging moved closer, and we suspect his clan moved deeper into the protected heart of the Hoh Rainforest, far from the reach of machines and men.
We still have the footage. We have the cedar doll. We have the agates. But we have decided, as a family, that the world isn’t ready.
If I showed the world these videos, the Olympic Peninsula would be swarmed. They would hunt him with drones and tranquilizer darts. They would turn a friendship into a specimen. Sarah and I have encrypted the files and hidden them away. We tell Ethan that his friend is on a long journey, looking after the deeper trees.
My son still goes to the tree line every afternoon. He doesn’t go in, but he stands there and sings the song they once harmonized together. And sometimes, when the wind is just right and the saws are silent, I swear I hear a deep, resonant huff coming from the shadows—a soft, subsonic vibration that says, “I am still here. I am still watching.”
My name is David Mitchell. I am a software developer, a father, and a man who knows that the most beautiful things in this world are the ones we choose to leave alone.
The Guardian’s Pact
The weeks following Goliath’s departure were a lesson in quiet mourning. Ethan didn’t cry; instead, he became a sort of self-appointed warden of our five acres. He stopped playing with his plastic blocks and started building small shelters out of sticks and moss at the edge of the yard—”in case he comes back and it’s raining,” he told us.
But while the physical presence of the creature was gone, the impact of those three weeks began to manifest in ways I couldn’t explain through software logic or Sarah’s educational theories.
The Sensitivity of the Forest
In November 2024, the logging company, Apex Timber, moved their operations to the ridge directly overlooking our property. The peace was officially over. The “Emptiness” that Earl Whitaker had described in his journals—the feeling of a forest losing its soul—began to seep into our lives.
One afternoon, a representative from the timber company knocked on our door. He was a polite man in a high-visibility vest, offering a “standard inconvenience payout” because they were going to be blasting some rock further up the trail.
“Just be careful with your boy,” the man said, tipping his cap toward Ethan, who was sitting on the porch clutching the cedar doll. “The noise usually drives the bears down toward the valley. They get jumpy.”
I looked at Ethan, then back at the man. “It’s not the bears I’m worried about,” I said.
That night, for the first time since moving to Forks, our Ring camera didn’t pick up a Bigfoot. It picked up a warning. At 2:14 a.m., the footage showed a large cougar stalking across our deck, its eyes glowing like embers. It lingered at Ethan’s window, sniffing the glass.
Suddenly, the cat’s head snapped toward the forest. Its ears flattened, and it let out a hiss so primal it woke us up before the camera alert even pinged. The cougar didn’t just walk away; it bolted as if a predator ten times its size had just stepped into the light.
We looked at the footage. There was nothing there. Just the swaying hemlocks. But then I saw it—a massive, dark hand rested momentarily on the wooden fence post at the very edge of the frame, then pulled back.
Goliath hadn’t left us. He had just changed his shift.
The Final Lesson: Interdependence
Through this experience, I realized that the “gentle encounter” Ethan had was part of a much larger, ancient ecological balance. These creatures aren’t just myths or animals; they are the Keepers of the Threshold. They manage the space between the human world and the wild world.
By befriending Ethan, Goliath hadn’t just been playing hide-and-seek. He had been marking us. He recognized our family as “Listen-Keepers,” a term I found later in old Salish legends. Because we didn’t hunt him, because we didn’t chase him with cameras, he had accepted us as part of his territory’s safety net.
The Archive of the Future
Sarah and I have started a “Legacy Box” for Ethan. Inside is a copy of David Thornton’s research on the “Language of the Fallen,” Earl Whitaker’s “Ten Lessons,” and our own footage of the “Singing Bigfoot.”
We told Ethan that when he turns twenty-one, the box will be his. “You are the one who spoke to him, Ethan,” Sarah told him as we tucked him in last night. “You are the one who has to decide when the world is kind enough to hear the story.”
“I think the world is too loud right now, Mommy,” Ethan said, hugging his cedar doll. “Goliath likes it quiet.”
The Song in the Wind
It is now late 2025. The logging has finished on the ridge, leaving a scarred landscape of stumps and gravel. But our five acres remain a vibrant, green anomaly. The agates Goliath gave Ethan are lined up on the fireplace mantle, and sometimes, during the full moon, they seem to catch a light that isn’t there.
I still work as a software developer, but I spend less time looking at code and more time looking at the tree line. I’ve learned to recognize the signs now: the way the birds go silent five minutes before a “Heavy” moves through the brush; the specific “click-clack” of stones being hit together to signal a boundary.
We are the Mitchells of Forks. To our neighbors, we are just a quiet family who keeps to themselves. But in the deep, emerald heart of the Olympic Peninsula, we are known by another name. We are the Friends of the Shadow.
And as I watch Ethan stand at the edge of the yard, singing a song about forest animals into the mist, I know that as long as one human child remembers how to be gentle, the Guardians will never truly go away.
The Legacy of the Cedar Doll
As winter 2025 deepens, the “cedar doll” Goliath left for Ethan has become more than a memento; it has become a bridge of understanding. Sarah, with her background in education and a newfound passion for ethnobotany, began to study the doll’s construction. She discovered that the “hair” used to bind the cedar bark wasn’t just fur—it was woven with strands of mountain goat wool and dried sweetgrass, materials found only in the high alpine meadows miles away.
“He traveled for this,” Sarah noted in her journal. “This wasn’t just a discarded object. It was a craft. He made a representation of Ethan to take with him, and he left a representation of himself with us. It’s an exchange of souls.”
The Silent Network
We began to notice that our property had become a “neutral zone.” Other animals seemed to sense the protection of the Keeper. We saw elk bedding down in our clearing during hunting season, sensing that the perimeter was monitored by something the local hunters wouldn’t dare cross.
I’ve also started noticing “signposts” that I would have ignored a year ago. About fifty yards into the forest, two young hemlocks have been bent and tied together to form a living archway. It’s a marker. In the language of the forest, it means: Beyond this point, the Little One lives. Walk softly.
The Night of the Great Frost
In late December 2025, a freak cold snap hit the peninsula, dropping temperatures to record lows. Our power lines went down, and the house began to lose heat rapidly. We huddled in the living room by the fireplace, but the wood was damp, and the fire was struggling.
Ethan was shivering, tucked between Sarah and me under a mountain of quilts. Suddenly, the “subsonic hum” returned. It was so low it made the glasses in the kitchen cabinet rattle.
I looked out the window. Through the frost-covered glass, I saw a massive shadow moving near our woodshed. I heard the sound of heavy timber being moved—not broken, but lifted. Minutes later, there was a heavy thud on our porch.
When I checked the next morning, the porch was stacked with seasoned, bone-dry madrone wood—the hottest burning wood in the Northwest. It wasn’t our wood; it was wood that had been scavenged from an old lightning-strike site miles up the ridge. Goliath had spent his night in the freezing cold ensuring that “his” humans didn’t freeze.
The Mitchell Manifesto
I am writing this now, at the end of 2025, because I want there to be a record for when the “Emptiness” finally tries to reclaim this land. My name is David Mitchell, and I have learned three truths that I will pass down to my son:
They are not ‘missing links’—they are the Link. They connect the spiritual world to the physical one.
Fear is a wall; Curiosity is a door. If we had approached Goliath with fear, he would have been a monster. Because Ethan approached him with a drawing, he became a brother.
Silence is a Language. You don’t need words to tell someone they are safe. You just need to show up when the storm hits.
The Final Horizon
Ethan is eight now. He’s taller, and his voice is losing that high, childish ring. But his eyes still seek the shadows. Every morning before school, he leaves an apple or a handful of berries on the “Giving Rock” at the edge of the yard.
And every evening, the rock is bare, save for a single, small token left in return: a piece of moss, a bird’s eggshell, or a drop of hardened amber.
The Mitchells are no longer just a family living in Forks. We are part of the forest’s memory. We are the witnesses of the gentle giant, the friends of the one who waves back. And in a world that is moving too fast toward a cold, digital future, we have found our warmth in the ancient, hairy shadows of the trees.
The story doesn’t end here. It’s just waiting for the next song to begin.
The Guide to the Forest Signs
By early 2026, David Mitchell began to compile what he called the “Mitchell Codex”—a series of observations that decoded the silent language Goliath used to communicate with their family. These were not just random occurrences; they were a sophisticated system of boundary-setting and welfare checks.
The Leaning Hemlocks (The Gateway): Two young trees bent toward each other and lashed with cedar withes. This signaled a “Peace Zone.” Within this area, no predatory behavior was tolerated by the Guardians.
The Three-Stone Stack (The All-Clear): Found on the “Giving Rock” every morning. Three stones graduated by size meant the family was being watched and the perimeter was secure.
The Wood-Knock Cadence: A double-knock followed by a long silence was Goliath’s way of announcing his presence without frightening Sarah or Ethan. It was his version of a “doorbell.”
The 2026 Convergence
As the year progressed, something even more profound happened. Through a series of chance encounters in online forums for “Alternative Forestry,” David Mitchell made contact with a man named Thomas Harris—the son of the deputy who had known Dr. David Thornton.
They met in a secluded diner in Olympia. Between them on the table lay the evidence of three different lives: Thornton’s sketches of the “Language of the Fallen,” Earl Whitaker’s “Ten Lessons,” and David Mitchell’s high-definition footage of Goliath.
“It’s happening everywhere,” Thomas Harris whispered, his eyes scanning the documents. “The Guardians are moving closer to the fringes. It’s as if they know the ‘Emptiness’ is peaking, and they’re trying to stabilize the remaining wild places before they’re gone.”
They realized that the Bigfoot weren’t just “hiding.” They were waiting for a specific generation of humans—the ones who had seen the failure of the digital dream—to look back toward the trees.
The Final Vision of the Mitchells
On the two-year anniversary of the first meeting, the Mitchell family sat on their deck. The logging on the ridge had ceased, and the forest was slowly reclaiming the scarred earth. Fireweed and lupine were beginning to cover the stumps.
Suddenly, Ethan stood up. He didn’t wave this time. He just pointed.
At the edge of the forest, Goliath appeared. But he wasn’t alone. Standing beside him was a smaller, sleeker creature—a juvenile, perhaps no more than five feet tall. Goliath placed a hand on the smaller one’s shoulder, nudging it forward.
The young creature looked at Ethan, then at the cedar-bark doll Ethan was holding. It let out a soft, inquisitive chirp—a sound like a mountain bluebird.
“He brought his son, Daddy,” Ethan whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “He brought him to meet me.”
In that moment, the Mitchells realized their role was far greater than they had imagined. They weren’t just witnesses; they were the human half of a generational pact. As Goliath was teaching his young the ways of the forest, David and Sarah were teaching Ethan the ways of the “Listen-Keepers.”
The Unending Story
The world remains loud, chaotic, and often cold. But on the outskirts of Forks, Washington, there is a five-acre clearing where the resonance is different. It is a place where the cameras are turned off, the guns are absent, and the language of the heart is spoken in whistles and stone-stacks.
My name is David Mitchell. I am a software developer, but my real work is now the protection of the Threshold. Our family is the bridge. And as the sun sets over the Olympic Peninsula, I look into the dark green shadows and I don’t feel fear. I feel a sense of profound, ancient belonging.
The secret is safe. The song is playing. And the Guardians are home.
The Guide to the Forest Signs
By early 2026, David Mitchell began to compile what he called the “Mitchell Codex”—a series of observations that decoded the silent language Goliath used to communicate with their family. These were not just random occurrences; they were a sophisticated system of boundary-setting and welfare checks.
The Leaning Hemlocks (The Gateway): Two young trees bent toward each other and lashed with cedar withes. This signaled a “Peace Zone.” Within this area, no predatory behavior was tolerated by the Guardians.
The Three-Stone Stack (The All-Clear): Found on the “Giving Rock” every morning. Three stones graduated by size meant the family was being watched and the perimeter was secure.
The Wood-Knock Cadence: A double-knock followed by a long silence was Goliath’s way of announcing his presence without frightening Sarah or Ethan. It was his version of a “doorbell.”
The 2026 Convergence
As the year progressed, something even more profound happened. Through a series of chance encounters in online forums for “Alternative Forestry,” David Mitchell made contact with a man named Thomas Harris—the son of the deputy who had known Dr. David Thornton.
They met in a secluded diner in Olympia. Between them on the table lay the evidence of three different lives: Thornton’s sketches of the “Language of the Fallen,” Earl Whitaker’s “Ten Lessons,” and David Mitchell’s high-definition footage of Goliath.
“It’s happening everywhere,” Thomas Harris whispered, his eyes scanning the documents. “The Guardians are moving closer to the fringes. It’s as if they know the ‘Emptiness’ is peaking, and they’re trying to stabilize the remaining wild places before they’re gone.”
They realized that the Bigfoot weren’t just “hiding.” They were waiting for a specific generation of humans—the ones who had seen the failure of the digital dream—to look back toward the trees.
The Final Vision of the Mitchells
On the two-year anniversary of the first meeting, the Mitchell family sat on their deck. The logging on the ridge had ceased, and the forest was slowly reclaiming the scarred earth. Fireweed and lupine were beginning to cover the stumps.
Suddenly, Ethan stood up. He didn’t wave this time. He just pointed.
At the edge of the forest, Goliath appeared. But he wasn’t alone. Standing beside him was a smaller, sleeker creature—a juvenile, perhaps no more than five feet tall. Goliath placed a hand on the smaller one’s shoulder, nudging it forward.
The young creature looked at Ethan, then at the cedar-bark doll Ethan was holding. It let out a soft, inquisitive chirp—a sound like a mountain bluebird.
“He brought his son, Daddy,” Ethan whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “He brought him to meet me.”
In that moment, the Mitchells realized their role was far greater than they had imagined. They weren’t just witnesses; they were the human half of a generational pact. As Goliath was teaching his young the ways of the forest, David and Sarah were teaching Ethan the ways of the “Listen-Keepers.”
The Unending Story
The world remains loud, chaotic, and often cold. But on the outskirts of Forks, Washington, there is a five-acre clearing where the resonance is different. It is a place where the cameras are turned off, the guns are absent, and the language of the heart is spoken in whistles and stone-stacks.
My name is David Mitchell. I am a software developer, but my real work is now the protection of the Threshold. Our family is the bridge. And as the sun sets over the Olympic Peninsula, I look into the dark green shadows and I don’t feel fear. I feel a sense of profound, ancient belonging.
The secret is safe. The song is playing. And the Guardians are home.
The Guide to the Forest Signs
By early 2026, David Mitchell began to compile what he called the “Mitchell Codex”—a series of observations that decoded the silent language Goliath used to communicate with their family. These were not just random occurrences; they were a sophisticated system of boundary-setting and welfare checks.
The Leaning Hemlocks (The Gateway): Two young trees bent toward each other and lashed with cedar withes. This signaled a “Peace Zone.” Within this area, no predatory behavior was tolerated by the Guardians.
The Three-Stone Stack (The All-Clear): Found on the “Giving Rock” every morning. Three stones graduated by size meant the family was being watched and the perimeter was secure.
The Wood-Knock Cadence: A double-knock followed by a long silence was Goliath’s way of announcing his presence without frightening Sarah or Ethan. It was his version of a “doorbell.”
The 2026 Convergence
As the year progressed, something even more profound happened. Through a series of chance encounters in online forums for “Alternative Forestry,” David Mitchell made contact with a man named Thomas Harris—the son of the deputy who had known Dr. David Thornton.
They met in a secluded diner in Olympia. Between them on the table lay the evidence of three different lives: Thornton’s sketches of the “Language of the Fallen,” Earl Whitaker’s “Ten Lessons,” and David Mitchell’s high-definition footage of Goliath.
“It’s happening everywhere,” Thomas Harris whispered, his eyes scanning the documents. “The Guardians are moving closer to the fringes. It’s as if they know the ‘Emptiness’ is peaking, and they’re trying to stabilize the remaining wild places before they’re gone.”
They realized that the Bigfoot weren’t just “hiding.” They were waiting for a specific generation of humans—the ones who had seen the failure of the digital dream—to look back toward the trees.
The Final Vision of the Mitchells
On the two-year anniversary of the first meeting, the Mitchell family sat on their deck. The logging on the ridge had ceased, and the forest was slowly reclaiming the scarred earth. Fireweed and lupine were beginning to cover the stumps.
Suddenly, Ethan stood up. He didn’t wave this time. He just pointed.
At the edge of the forest, Goliath appeared. But he wasn’t alone. Standing beside him was a smaller, sleeker creature—a juvenile, perhaps no more than five feet tall. Goliath placed a hand on the smaller one’s shoulder, nudging it forward.
The young creature looked at Ethan, then at the cedar-bark doll Ethan was holding. It let out a soft, inquisitive chirp—a sound like a mountain bluebird.
“He brought his son, Daddy,” Ethan whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “He brought him to meet me.”
In that moment, the Mitchells realized their role was far greater than they had imagined. They weren’t just witnesses; they were the human half of a generational pact. As Goliath was teaching his young the ways of the forest, David and Sarah were teaching Ethan the ways of the “Listen-Keepers.”
The Unending Story
The world remains loud, chaotic, and often cold. But on the outskirts of Forks, Washington, there is a five-acre clearing where the resonance is different. It is a place where the cameras are turned off, the guns are absent, and the language of the heart is spoken in whistles and stone-stacks.
My name is David Mitchell. I am a software developer, but my real work is now the protection of the Threshold. Our family is the bridge. And as the sun sets over the Olympic Peninsula, I look into the dark green shadows and I don’t feel fear. I feel a sense of profound, ancient belonging.
The secret is safe. The song is playing. And the Guardians are home.
The Guide to the Forest Signs
By early 2026, David Mitchell began to compile what he called the “Mitchell Codex”—a series of observations that decoded the silent language Goliath used to communicate with their family. These were not just random occurrences; they were a sophisticated system of boundary-setting and welfare checks.
The Leaning Hemlocks (The Gateway): Two young trees bent toward each other and lashed with cedar withes. This signaled a “Peace Zone.” Within this area, no predatory behavior was tolerated by the Guardians.
The Three-Stone Stack (The All-Clear): Found on the “Giving Rock” every morning. Three stones graduated by size meant the family was being watched and the perimeter was secure.
The Wood-Knock Cadence: A double-knock followed by a long silence was Goliath’s way of announcing his presence without frightening Sarah or Ethan. It was his version of a “doorbell.”
The 2026 Convergence
As the year progressed, something even more profound happened. Through a series of chance encounters in online forums for “Alternative Forestry,” David Mitchell made contact with a man named Thomas Harris—the son of the deputy who had known Dr. David Thornton.
They met in a secluded diner in Olympia. Between them on the table lay the evidence of three different lives: Thornton’s sketches of the “Language of the Fallen,” Earl Whitaker’s “Ten Lessons,” and David Mitchell’s high-definition footage of Goliath.
“It’s happening everywhere,” Thomas Harris whispered, his eyes scanning the documents. “The Guardians are moving closer to the fringes. It’s as if they know the ‘Emptiness’ is peaking, and they’re trying to stabilize the remaining wild places before they’re gone.”
They realized that the Bigfoot weren’t just “hiding.” They were waiting for a specific generation of humans—the ones who had seen the failure of the digital dream—to look back toward the trees.
The Final Vision of the Mitchells
On the two-year anniversary of the first meeting, the Mitchell family sat on their deck. The logging on the ridge had ceased, and the forest was slowly reclaiming the scarred earth. Fireweed and lupine were beginning to cover the stumps.
Suddenly, Ethan stood up. He didn’t wave this time. He just pointed.
At the edge of the forest, Goliath appeared. But he wasn’t alone. Standing beside him was a smaller, sleeker creature—a juvenile, perhaps no more than five feet tall. Goliath placed a hand on the smaller one’s shoulder, nudging it forward.
The young creature looked at Ethan, then at the cedar-bark doll Ethan was holding. It let out a soft, inquisitive chirp—a sound like a mountain bluebird.
“He brought his son, Daddy,” Ethan whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “He brought him to meet me.”
In that moment, the Mitchells realized their role was far greater than they had imagined. They weren’t just witnesses; they were the human half of a generational pact. As Goliath was teaching his young the ways of the forest, David and Sarah were teaching Ethan the ways of the “Listen-Keepers.”
The Unending Story
The world remains loud, chaotic, and often cold. But on the outskirts of Forks, Washington, there is a five-acre clearing where the resonance is different. It is a place where the cameras are turned off, the guns are absent, and the language of the heart is spoken in whistles and stone-stacks.
My name is David Mitchell. I am a software developer, but my real work is now the protection of the Threshold. Our family is the bridge. And as the sun sets over the Olympic Peninsula, I look into the dark green shadows and I don’t feel fear. I feel a sense of profound, ancient belonging.
The secret is safe. The song is playing. And the Guardians are home.
