Moonlight barely filtered through the canopy above, casting silver slivers that danced and vanished as the wind moved the leaves.

You were running.

You didn't know when you started, or why, or how long you'd been at it. Your lungs burned, your legs ached, and the cold air tasted like copper and pine.

Behind you—or ahead of you, or beside you, you couldn't tell—there was a voice.

The trees around you twisted and parted, revealing a small clearing. In the center, half-buried in dead leaves and moss, something glinted.

A single page of paper, yellowed and frayed at the edges. There was writing on it, but the ink was too faded to read in the dim light.