Jack and the frog

It started with a caterpillar.

As I stirred inside my sleeping bag, my finger brushed against something damp, squishy, and plump. Curious, I rolled it between my fingers - stretching it a little, gently squishing it.
I sat up to inspect it. A caterpillar. Still alive, surprisingly wiggly. I carefully placed the little creature on the windowsill, intending to transport it outside but completely forgetting to do so.

A strange morning, but honestly, better than most. I brewed some coffee, took a sip… and headed straight for the toilet. I really hate when that happens.

Jack was waiting in the living room. I don’t know how he got in - probably let himself in sometime last night.

I’d had a few drinks. I think I was alone. Or was Jack there? Was it even just a few?

After a quick shower and some clothes thrown on, I gestured for Jack to follow. We'd talked about hitting the forest today. We go on a little excursion once a week - just strolling through the wild and noticing peculiar things.

Today, we saw a frog dressed in a robe.

It wasn’t a metaphor - and not a trick of the light, either. The frog was actually wearing a robe. It clearly had a taste for fashion.
Burgundy. A bit silk-looking. The kind of thing you’d see in a vintage perfume ad. And cinched at the waist with thread.
Jack saw it too. He squatted down and said, “Do you think he’s a monk?”

I didn't answer. I just watched as the frog turned its head toward us - calculated and deliberate - then leapt off the path into the underbrush, but not before giving us that wise old look, like it knew something we didn’t - and didn’t care to explain.

We didn’t speak for a while after that. We didn't try to follow where the frog went, either. We knew better. Last time we saw a yellow horse, things got complicated.

It was just standing there in the clearing, motionless - like a sculpture abandoned in the woods. Its mane moved in the wind, and it seemed like the only part that was alive. Jack wanted to touch it. I told him not to.

He touched it anyway.

The next morning, he couldn’t remember his name. Not just forgot - didn’t have one. When I called him Jack, he flinched like I’d said something vulgar. It lasted three days. Then, just as suddenly, it wore off.

So yeah, we didn’t follow the frog.

We continued walking but kept an alert eye on our surroundings. Half an hour later we were met by a wide stream. Jack bent to drink from it but stopped halfway, staring down at the water.

“What is it?” I asked.

“There’s something written on the rocks,” he said. “Like… calligraphy. I think it’s in Latin.”

“Jack, you barely read. You’ve cursed every form of written language. How do you even know it’s Latin?”

It was, indeed, Latin.

Jack crouched lower, squinting at the rocks beneath the surface. The water was shallow, but fast - the words shimmered and flickered like they didn’t want to be read.

“It says…” Jack hesitated. “Aqua dormit, non moritur.”

I frowned. “What does that mean?”

He tilted his head. “Something like… ‘The water sleeps, it doesn’t die.’”

I stared at him. “How did you know that?”

"I told you - some weird stuff’s been happening since the horse incident..."

It was true. Some strange things had been happening - and Jack here seemed to be at the center of it. Things he shouldn’t know, things he shouldn’t be able to do. Nothing grand. Nothing epic. Just the kind of stuff that shouldn’t have been possible - not for Jack.

I looked at the stream again. It didn’t look asleep. It looked like it was listening.

Jack reached out to touch one of the inscribed stones.

“Don’t,” I said, maybe too quickly.

He stopped, hand hovering an inch above the water. “You think it’s like the horse?”

“Worse,” I said. “The horse didn’t come with instructions.”

He stood back up, brushing his hands on his jeans. The water rushed on steadily and quietly, as if trying not to wake itself. We stood there a moment longer, pretending not to notice how the air had changed - heavier, hushed.

We both took a step back, but of course, Jack - this always happens - lost his balance and slipped into the stream.

A second - just a second - before everything went black. I saw it.

Small.
Burgundy.

---

^{I miss my mind sometimes. But I think Jack misses it more.}