Trespass -

The forest remembered her trespass.

Now, at 5 a.m., Lena stood at the fence. Her father’s shotgun was heavy in her hands, but she hadn't loaded it. That wasn't the trespass she was planning.

But she pressed on. The light flickered again, closer now. Through the undergrowth, she saw it: a cabin. Not old, not new. Impossible. The timber was fresh-cut cedar, but the hinges were forged in a shape no blacksmith today would know. The candle inside guttered as she stepped onto the porch. trespass

She reached out to touch it.

The moment her boot touched the moss on the other side, the air changed. It grew still, then thick—like wading through the memory of a held breath. The pines leaned inward, their needles whispering not with wind, but with a low, harmonic hum. She felt it in her sternum: a frequency, a warning. The forest remembered her trespass

The fence wasn't high, just a rusty whisper of wire and splintered post. On the other side, the forest grew thick and dark, a lung of green that had belonged to the Morrow family for a hundred years. A sign, pocked with birdshot, read: TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT. SURVIVORS WILL BE SHOT AGAIN.

The door was ajar.

Inside, there was no furniture. No dust. Just a single candle on a bare floor, and in the center of the flame, a small, perfect handprint pressed into the air, as if the fire itself had been cupped by a child.