Yeah, a score I never signed up for. Doctors love the word fine. It’s clipped, dismissive, and vaguely authoritative—like a slammed gavel closing out a difficult case—_fine. _Full stop. Even as I’m sitting here, in a hospital by the way, sweat prickling at the back of my neck, feeling like something scraped from the bottom of a shoe. That’s where I’m at: David Marshall, age forty-five, being told for the third month in a row that I’m fine. Meanwhile, my body mutinies beneath my skin.
Here’s the scene: the clinic reeks of ammonia and despair. Dr. Dalby—whose only notable personality trait is a collection of aggressively patterned ties—stares at his clipboard like it accused him of something vile. I brace for the verdict. My muscles ache like they’ve been wrung out, my chest hums with a wheeze I’ve affectionately named Gerald, and just this morning, my legs threatened to buckle when I stood up too fast. But here we are again: bloodwork, scans, vitals—“perfect.”
“You’re perfectly healthy,” he says, removing his glasses like it’s some magician’s flourish. “Could be stress.”
Stress. It’s always stress. Modern medicine’s favorite catch-all. I could drag myself in here missing an arm, and someone would tell me to meditate.
“Stress makes me feel like this?” I ask, incredulous. My voice is tight, my fists curling in my lap. “Tired, breathless, sore? My lungs wheeze like they’re rehearsing for a solo in a jazz club.”
Dalby offers a nod so patronizing I half expect him to pat me on the head. “Movement helps with fatigue. Exercise more.”
I let out a brittle laugh. “I am moving. I climbed the stairs this morning in shifts like I was hauling bricks. I shuffle from room to room like a malfunctioning Roomba. I breathe real hard too, doc—feels like cardio just existing.”
His expression doesn’t crack. Doctors don’t laugh when they’ve run out of answers. Instead, they hand you a pamphlet on mindfulness or remind you to drink water, as though hydration is some cure-all miracle.
“Let’s keep monitoring things,” he says, offering vague reassurance like it’s a prescription.
I leave the clinic and shuffle toward my car, knees wobbling like a bad weld job, thighs burning like I just finished a sprint. The sunlight feels accusatory, like it’s mocking my limp. I slide into the driver’s seat, legs trembling from the effort, and grip the wheel until the shaking subsides. There’s no medal for this kind of endurance—just me, pretending I’m fine while my body keeps breaking down in ways no one can see.
Later that night, it happens again. I wake up gasping, chest gripped in a vice. My lungs seize, the air trapped somewhere between inhale and panic. I sit up so fast my ribs protest, hacking so hard it feels like my bones might crack. Gerald, my wheeze, sputters and whines like a kettle running out of steam. My fingers clutch the sheets, knuckles white. For a second, I think about the ER—imagining the fluorescent lights, the smell of antiseptic, the inevitable: “You’re fine. Just breathe.”
So I figured ‘why bother?’ and continued to sit in the dark instead, waiting. Counting heartbeats. Listening to the wheeze as it settles back into its corner like a sulking animal. Alive, I think. Technically.
The next morning, Dr. Dalby calls, chipper as ever. “Your test results look great! Heart, lungs—everything’s stable. Perfectly healthy.”
“Fantastic,” I mutter. “I’ll make sure to let my body know.”
I hang up and stare blankly at the wall, caught somewhere between relief and a quiet fury. I think about all the small betrayals: the popping knees, the drenched bedsheets, the way my legs tremble after ten minutes upright. I don’t need marathons or mountain climbing.
I just want to wake up and feel like a person again.
But maybe this is just the price of growing older. Forty-five feels like the point where you stop being unbreakable and start turning human—fragile in ways you never expected. So I keep eating salads, swallowing vitamins, and dragging myself from room to room like a relic trying to hold itself together. Gerald wheezes in my chest like clockwork, and I keep showing up at Dalby’s office, waiting for someone to call me something other than fine.
Until then, I’ll be here: a man held together by sheer force of will, living proof that you don’t need to die to feel like you’re falling apart.
They don’t remember how they got here. There isn’t really a “they”—just scattered voices, a splintered awareness drifting through endless, twisted neon walls that pulse and flicker like a heartbeat. The maze stretches out in every direction, woven from raw thoughts, hidden fears, and secrets buried so deep that even the mind itself recoils. The air is thick, pressing in on them, as colors throb like exposed nerves, pulsing bright and dim, flickering just enough to keep them on edge. Every sound they make comes back hollow and warped, as though the mind itself mocks every step forward.
Ghosts? Hallucinations?
Those labels don’t matter here. Only one thing feels certain: somewhere in this mess, there must be a way out.
A hand—does it even belong to them?—presses against a wall that feels disturbingly warm, pulsing with faint, sickly heat. It shifts under their touch, crumbling away like sand even as it resists them.
“This isn’t real,” a voice murmurs, distrust simmering in every word.
“But that doesn’t make it safe,” another voice replies, sharp and bitter, cutting through the silence.
“Feels like some kind of trip. Trauma, self-loathing. Think there’s an exit?”
“…Or are we just meant to walk these halls forever?”
Nothing answers. The silence is thick, swallowing up their words. They have no choice but to press on, minutes blurring into hours, hours into days—time has lost all meaning. Only this suffocating rhythm remains, broken by the occasional light pulse and the hollow echo of their voices.
The walls start flashing with scenes of overwhelming heartbreak, unrelenting shame, the sharp twang of small betrayals, and regrets. Each memory is jagged, unyielding, like shards of a mirror reflecting someone else’s life. And yet the memories claw at something deep inside, as if fragments of their existence are embedded into the broken glass.
The boundary between self and other has now shattered, leaving them tangled in memories they know aren’t theirs but feel within their bones—do they even have bones?
The memories hover, taunting them with glimpses they can almost—but never quite—grasp. Each time they reach out, the scenes slip away like shadows in the light, just beyond their touch. Still, they keep moving, forced to absorb layer upon layer of shame, regret, and guilty fear. In one flash, they see a hand reaching out, fingers trembling with longing; in another, they feel the raw ache of abandonment, the hollow sting of a love lost. These emotions cling to them and press into their thoughts until they feel like drowning in someone else’s sorrow.
Now and then, something draws them toward the walls—a desperate urge for something solid, something real. But just like the memories, the walls shudder and recoil each time, shifting away as if alive, rejecting their very touch. The wrongness of it ripples through them, a reminder that nothing here belongs to them. They are the intruders, yet somehow, this place feels like it’s been waiting for them all along.
Then, out of nowhere, a door appears. Its frame pulses with a frantic, uneven beat, like a trapped heart thumping erratically, vibrating with a strange, desperate hope. The edges glow, alive and tense, shimmering with an energy that almost feels… safe? They hesitate, hesitate once more, then finally reach out, pushing the door open, bracing for release.
But there is no escape. They’re right back at the beginning, staring at themselves, exhausted reflections thrown back in distorted neon light, faces etched with emotions they know aren’t truly their own.
“Alright, I’ll say it. Is this hell?” a voice murmurs, cynically resigned.
“Worse,” another voice replies, thick with bitterness.
“It’s the inside of a mind that doesn’t want to let us go. Or maybe it can’t. We’re the shit it’s tried to bury—the doubts, the regrets, all the festering truths it doesn’t want to face. We’re clawing through memories, trying to break free from a mind that can’t handle us here.”
The ground trembles at the words, a faint warning, as though the mind resists their revelation.
They’re forced into a slump against the walls, side by side, each tremor echoing the painful realization that there is no escape. This was never a maze they stumbled into; it was a prison they were created to inhabit.
They are merely fragments, forgotten parts, pieces meant to be buried. They are the persistent guilt, the unrelenting fear, the inescapable shame that the mind has tried to shove into its darkest corners but can never erase. They claw their way back to the surface, forced to relive each jagged moment, each flicker of memory, as the mind struggles to bury them again.
Slowly, painfully, they come to understand that there is no escape because they are the labyrinth. Each twist and turn is an integral part of them; each flash of memory is a fragment of their essence. They aren’t merely haunting this mind—they are the mind’s most unwanted parts, the echoes it desperately tries to silence yet can never fully destroy. Their voices are bound to these walls, whispers of regret and doubt that this mind will never escape.
They drift on, through endless hallways, voices circling back, filling the silence with their fractured presence. And this is how it ends—or continues: forever circling, forever haunting, trapped in a cycle of repression and rumination.
Micah doesn’t just move; he infiltrates. His presence lingers before it’s seen—a chill that prickles your skin, though you dismiss it as mere unease. Watching him is like watching a cat study a bird: silent, poised, almost elegant in his restraint. Yet his intent is unmistakable. He doesn’t ever strike outright. Instead, he waits, gauges, and catalogues what pulls you in, finding the cracks. A flicker of kindness or a moment quiet understanding—just enough for you to let him in a little further each time. His attention feels rare, almost curated, making it seem worth fighting for. But by the time you realize he won’t stay, he’s already gone, leaving faint traces that keep you lingering, hoping he’ll return. Micah doesn’t tear through people, no. He slowly hollows you out, leaving a husk where something hopeful used to be, filled only with the echoes of what you wanted him to be…
while chasing your ghost, i became one myself— translucent as morning fog, the space between breaths, or like the clatter of a dead-end street after midnight.
you were always good at hollowing things out: rooms, promises, the space behind my ribs. now i practice your art in reverse, carving myself thin enough to follow.
i grew into the absence you planted, let it fester, untamed, in the darkness. until my skin thinned to vapor, my thoughts akin to broken signals, and my body collapsed inward, folding in slow, like burnt edges curling to ash.
it happened somewhere between your last lie and the first frost of winter— how i began to haunt my own memory, growing paler with each passing hour.
now i’m weightless, drifting, a ghost hunting a ghost, and somehow, it’s fitting— we’re both just fading, disappearing, like footprints swallowed by the snow.
We are born as broken pieces, Fractured stars, Clutching our corners, Thinking the world ends at the edges Of our own skin.
In quiet moments, We hear the hum Of something larger Whispering beneath our ribs.
Our hands, when they touch, Are maps unfolding In the dark.
Alone, we are notes In a forgotten melody— A sound so small It vanishes on the wind.
But together, we rise. We become the song That shatters silence, Each voice lifting the next Until the sky sings back.
We are not whole until We collide. Until we see That the distance between us Was always the rhythm That kept us in time.
I never thought I'd end up here, working in a mansion with more bathrooms than I’ve had hot meals, but life has a weird sense of humor. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not complaining. After years of traveling, sleeping in hammocks, and living out of a backpack, I figured a change could be interesting. And what a change it is.
The mansion itself looks like someone gave a five-year-old an unlimited budget and a Pinterest account. Gold-tipped turrets, marble pillars, indoor fountains—yes, inside—and a driveway that probably has its own climate zone. From the moment I stepped through the door, it was clear the owners had no concept of restraint.
My first day, Iris, the house manager, gave me the grand tour. She’s essentially a CEO of towels, chandeliers, and artisanal soaps. As she led me through endless hallways, she rattled off room names like she was listing continents: “Here’s the ballroom, the drawing room, the solarium…” Then, without blinking, she adds, “And this is the gift-wrapping room.”
A gift-wrapping room. Come on.
I nearly laughed out loud. The room was fully dedicated to wrapping presents—complete with walls lined with colorful paper rolls, ribbons hung like works of art, and a little workstation that would make Santa Claus weep. It looked like a high-end boutique exploded in here. Apparently, the owners wrap a lot of gifts, though Iris never elaborated for whom. Do rich people just give each other presents all day?
As if that wasn’t completely over the top, it was just the beginning.
The next room Iris led me to was the shoe closet. And by “closet,” I mean shoe gallery. Shelves stretched up toward the ceiling, each pair of shoes a monument to extravagance. Hundreds of them, but apparently, the owner only ever wears five. The rest, Iris explained, are “just in case.” Just in case of what? A world where only designer heels survive?
And then there was the aquarium hallway. Not a room—an entire hallway. Lined with floor-to-ceiling glass, teeming with tropical fish that swam by like they owned the place. I walked through it feeling like I’d stepped into some upscale version of Atlantis. At one point, a bright blue fish glided right up to the glass and stared at me, as if to say, “Can you believe this?” No, little guy, I really can’t.
But the best part? The indoor hedge maze. Yes, a hedge maze inside the mansion. When Iris casually mentioned it, I nearly tripped over my own feet. “It’s for when you need a little adventure indoors,” she said with a smile that suggested this was perfectly normal. Adventure? Indoors? I’ve lived in hostels smaller than that maze, yet here it was, complete with meticulously trimmed topiary.
At this point, it was hard to suppress the laughter. It’s as if the mansion had been built on a dare, with every room more absurd than the last.
But here’s the thing—I can’t hate it. The place is so outrageously over-the-top that it loops back around to being kind of… delightful? There’s something oddly endearing about how unapologetically extravagant it is. If you’ve got the money to build a house where you could get lost for days, why not throw in a few fish tanks and an indoor labyrinth?
The absurdity doesn’t make me want to leave. If anything, it makes me want to stay longer—just to see what else this place has to offer. A room for brushing the dog’s hair? A fountain that dispenses sparkling water? At this point, nothing would surprise me.
And honestly? I’m here for it. This mansion might just be the most ridiculous—and entertaining—stop on my journey yet.
When I died, my shadow decided they would take over… and at first, it was exhilarating. Watching from a distance, I saw it step into my life without hesitation, free from the fear and doubt that had held me back for so long. It navigated the world with an ease I never had, walking through familiar places as if it had always belonged there. The shadow lived boldly, engaging in conversations I’d once been too anxious to start and pursuing dreams I had shelved out of fear of failure.
One of the first moments that truly struck me was when it strolled through the park where I used to walk, always keeping my head down, afraid of being noticed. My shadow, however, didn’t shrink away. It sat under the old oak tree where I had once hidden with a book, and instead of reading alone, it struck up a conversation with a stranger. I watched, a strange ache growing in me, as they laughed, the connection so effortless. I had always wanted that, but fear of rejection had always kept me on the sidelines.
Then there was the gallery downtown, a place I had passed a hundred times but never entered. I had convinced myself it wasn’t my kind of space—that I wouldn’t belong, that people would see me as out of place. My shadow, though, walked through the doors as if it owned the room. It stood before the artwork, speaking with a curator about brushstrokes and color as if it had always known these things. It engaged in a world I had longed to explore but had been too afraid to step into.
I followed my shadow to places I had only dreamed of going. It picked up books I’d bought but never read, walked into conversations I had rehearsed but never spoken. It moved through my life with a confidence that was once foreign to me. And for a while, I found joy in watching it live the way I had always wanted to, unburdened by the anxieties that had shackled me. But as time passed, that exhilaration gave way to a gnawing sense of regret.
The hardest moment came when it walked into a small bookstore I’d passed countless times but never dared to enter. I had always made excuses: “I don’t have the time” or “I’ll go next week.” My shadow didn’t hesitate. It moved through the narrow aisles, picking up books I’d always wanted to read, but had let collect dust on my shelves. Watching it explore those stories—the ones I’d been too afraid to dive into—was like witnessing the life I could have had, slipping through my fingers.
It wasn’t just about the places or the things I hadn’t done. It was the realization that my shadow wasn’t living recklessly—it was simply living freely, without the burden of fear or doubt. It wasn’t evil. It wasn’t trying to take over my life in some twisted way. It was just living the way I never allowed myself to. That’s what hurt the most. Watching it thrive in the spaces I’d left untouched, I felt the weight of everything I had missed.
I remember one night, following my shadow back to the apartment—our apartment. The same walls, the same soft glow of the lamp beside the couch. Yet, everything felt different. The air was lighter, the space fuller. My shadow moved through the rooms with a familiarity, but it was no longer tied to the hesitations that had defined my existence. It sat at the desk where I had spent countless hours staring at a blank screen, paralyzed by the fear that my words wouldn’t be good enough. My shadow didn’t hesitate. It opened my laptop and started typing, the words flowing effortlessly. There was no fear of judgment, no concern over whether the story would resonate. It was just writing, purely, unfiltered.
And that’s when it truly hit me—my shadow was living the life I could have had, had I just been brave enough. The realization settled over me like a heavy fog: I had spent so much time being afraid—afraid of failing, of looking foolish, of not being enough. I had spent my life holding myself back from everything I wanted, convinced that I wasn’t capable of reaching it. And now, it was too late. I had missed out on all of it.
My shadow wasn’t some malevolent force—it was simply the version of me that I never allowed to exist. It was everything I could have been if I had just let go of the fear and lived. Watching it now, I didn’t feel anger. I felt sorrow. Sorrow for all the chances I hadn’t taken, all the dreams I had let slip away because I was too afraid of what might happen if I failed. My shadow wasn’t extraordinary—it was me, living without limits, without hesitation.
As the days passed, I realized my shadow didn’t want to erase me. It wasn’t trying to replace me. It was living the life I had always been too afraid to claim. It moved through the world with a quiet confidence, not needing approval or validation. It didn’t seek power—it simply sought to live fully. And in doing so, it showed me everything I had missed out on.
Now, as I linger on the fringes of existence, watching my shadow inhabit a life that was once mine, I feel the weight of regret. Not because my shadow had taken over, but because it had shown me just how much I had held myself back. I realize now that life was always there, waiting for me to take it. But I had been too afraid to reach out and claim it.
In the end, it wasn’t the world that had limited me—it was me. My shadow wasn’t the villain of this story. It was the part of me that I had kept hidden, suppressed, for so long. And now, as I watch it live boldly and without fear, I can only wonder what might have been if I had allowed myself to do the same.
I found the journal on a rainy afternoon, hidden in the far corner of the attic. I wasn’t looking for it—just rifling through the old boxes that had been collecting dust for as long as I could remember. My mother’s things, remnants of a past she’d never really shared. The journal was tucked beneath a stack of yellowed papers; its leather cover was cracked and worn. I hesitated before picking it up, something deep inside me resisting the pull to open it. But then again, curiosity had always been my curse.
I flipped it open to the first page, and there it was—June 5, 1982, in my grandfather’s neat, slanted handwriting. I hadn’t even known it existed. He died before I was born, but I’d heard about him my whole life. Or, at least, I’d heard enough to know he was someone I was never supposed to ask about. His name was a ghost in our house, a shadow that clung to the walls and whispered through the cracks in the silence.
The first entry was a revelation. My mother had always told me that the Phoenix Order—the cult my grandfather had been part of—was evil, something to fear. She never went into details, but I grew up knowing they were the reason she kept us moving and hiding. It was why we never had a permanent home, why she never let me get close to anyone. The Order was a monster in the dark, always just a step behind us.
But as I read my grandfather’s words, I saw something different. He wrote with such passion, such conviction. He said the Phoenix Order wasn’t an evil force but a sanctuary. It is a place for people who want to improve the world and cleanse it of the corruption that has taken root. It was about rebirth, about rising from the ashes stronger, purer. The way he described it made so much sense. The world was broken. Full of lies and suffering. Maybe the Order was right—maybe the world did need to be torn down and rebuilt.
As I kept reading, I agreed, nodding to his words. And then, just as quickly, I’d stop and remember my mother’s warnings, her fear. She never wanted me to know about this, and now I was beginning to understand why. This wasn’t just some abstract ideology; it was something that had nearly destroyed her, destroyed our family.
But the more I read, the more I wanted to understand. Not just the Order but my grandfather himself. What had driven him to believe so strongly in something that everyone else seemed to fear? How had he become convinced that destruction was the only path to salvation?
I didn’t have any answers, and the more I read, the more questions I had. My grandfather’s words started to change, the tone becoming darker and more desperate. He wrote about the sacrifices that had to be made, the blood that needed to be spilled, and the fire that had to burn hotter and higher until it consumed everything in its path. It was no longer just about rebirth; it was about destruction.
That realization hit me hard, like a punch to the gut. I slammed the journal shut, my heart racing and my hands trembling. What the hell was I doing? How had I let myself get sucked into this madness? My mother had been right all along. My grandfather was a monster, and the Order was nothing more than a group of fanatics willing to do anything—sacrifice anyone—to achieve their twisted vision.
And yet… I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to the story. Something I was missing, something that didn’t fit. I needed to know the truth, all of it. I needed to understand why he had done what he did and been willing to sacrifice everything, even his family, for the Order.
I took a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. I couldn’t walk away now, not after everything I’d read. I had to finish what I started.
I opened the journal again, flipping to the final entries. The handwriting was messier now as if he had been writing in a frenzy, desperate to get the words out before it was too late. He wrote about the final days of the Order, the plans they had made, the actions they had taken. He wrote about the night everything fell apart—when my mother had finally escaped, taking me with her, leaving him behind to burn in the flames he had ignited.
And then, in the very last entry, he wrote about me.
I stared at the page, my breath catching in my throat. He mentioned me by name, something he hadn’t done before. He wrote about how he had known, even then, that I would come looking for answers one day. I would want to see the truth about where I came from, about who I was. He wrote about how he hoped I would understand, how he hoped I would see the world the way he did, and how he hoped I would continue the work he had started.
I slammed the journal shut again, my hands trembling. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t let myself get drawn into his madness. But as much as I tried to convince myself, I couldn’t stop the nagging thought that maybe, just maybe, he had been right. Maybe the world was broken and needed to be torn down and rebuilt.
“Ren?” The voice startled me, and I jumped, nearly knocking over the boxes beside me. I turned to see my best friend, Leo, standing in the doorway, concern etched across his face. “You okay? I’ve been calling your name for like five minutes.”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I lied, shoving the journal back into the box and pushing it aside. “Just… lost in thought, I guess.”
He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as he studied my face. “You don’t look fine. What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I said quickly, too quickly. I could see the skepticism in his eyes, and I knew I wasn’t fooling him. Leo had known me since we were kids. He could always tell when something was bothering me.
“You’re lying,” he said flatly, crossing his arms over his chest. “What’s going on?”
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. I didn’t want to drag him into this, but I knew I couldn’t keep it to myself. I needed to talk to someone, and Leo was the only person I trusted. “I found something,” I admitted reluctantly. “Something about my grandfather.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Your grandfather? The one who was in that cult?”
“Yeah,” I said, glancing at the box where I had hidden the journal. “It’s… complicated. But I think he might have been right about some things. About the world, about what needs to be done.”
Leo’s eyes widened in surprise, and a frown creased his forehead. “Ren, you can’t seriously be considering… Your mom always said that he was… well, you know.”
“A monster?” I finished for him, my voice bitter. “Yeah, I know. But what if she was wrong? What if there was more to it?”
Leo was silent for a long moment, his eyes searching mine. “Ren, you have to be careful. This kind of thinking… it’s dangerous. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
I knew he was right, but I couldn’t help how I felt. I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something I was meant to do, something bigger than myself. “I just need to figure it out,” I said quietly. “I need to know the truth.”
Leo’s expression softened, and he reached to place a hand on my shoulder. “Okay. But promise me you’ll be careful. Don’t do anything reckless.”
“I promise,” I said, but even as the words left my mouth, I wasn’t sure if I meant them.
Later that night, I sat alone in my room, the journal open on my lap. I read and reread the final entry, my grandfather’s words echoing. He believed in me. He thought that I was the key to finishing what he couldn’t. And as much as I wanted to reject that, to walk away, I couldn’t. Because deep down, I knew that he was right.
The fire was inside me, burning hotter and brighter with each passing moment. I didn’t know where it would lead me, didn’t know what it would make me, but I knew I couldn’t ignore it. I couldn’t pretend I was who I had been before I found the journal.
I could hear my mother’s voice in my head, warning me and begging me to walk away. But I wasn’t going to listen. Not this time. I had to see this through and find out where this path would take me. Because maybe, just maybe, it would lead me to the truth.
The truth about my grandfather. The truth about the Phoenix Order. The truth about myself.
And I wasn’t afraid anymore. I was ready to face whatever came next, even if it meant walking into the flames.
The sun was setting behind the jagged peaks of the distant mountains, casting long shadows over the small, dilapidated town that clung to the edge of the wilderness. The streets were empty, save for the occasional stray cat slinking through the alleys, and the air was thick with the scent of rain yet to fall.
Nadia stood at the crossroads, her hand gripping the worn leather strap of her satchel. She had spent the last few weeks in this forgotten place, drawn by whispers of something ancient and powerful buried deep in the forest beyond the town's limits. The locals spoke of it in hushed tones, their voices tinged with fear and reverence, as if the very mention of it could summon the darkness they so desperately avoided.
Yet Nadia wasn't one to shy away from danger. The thrill of the unknown had always called to her, louder than the warnings of the superstitious and the fearful. It was what had brought her here, what had led her to this moment.
She glanced back at the town, the flickering lights of the tavern and the dim glow of a single streetlamp offering a stark contrast to the encroaching night. The barkeep, an old man with more secrets than teeth, had warned her against venturing into the forest. He had seen too many like her, he said, lured by promises of riches and power, only to disappear without a trace.
Nadia had smiled at his concern, thanked him for the drink, and left without a word.
Now, standing at the edge of the unknown, she hesitated for the first time. The forest loomed ahead, a wall of blackness that seemed to swallow the light, its trees twisted and gnarled, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers.
Her heart pounded in her chest, a mix of excitement and trepidation. She knew that what lay ahead could change everything—or end it.
A soft rustle behind her made her turn. The old man from the tavern stood a few paces away, his wrinkled face lined with worry. His hand trembled as he held out a small object—a silver pendant, tarnished with age.
"Take this," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "It won't protect you, but it might give you the strength to do what needs to be done."
Nadia took the pendant, its weight surprising in her palm. She nodded her thanks, slipping it into her pocket.
The old man’s eyes held hers for a moment, a silent plea in their depths. Then, as if making peace with what was to come, he stepped back into the shadows, leaving her alone at the edge of the forest.
Nadia turned her gaze back to the darkness before her, taking a deep breath. The forest called to her, as it always had. And she would answer.
She stepped forward, the shadows swallowing her whole. The last words she heard before the night claimed her were the old man’s final warning, echoing in her mind like a distant memory:
"Be careful out there."
