A gentle breeze pushes a candy wrapper across the empty parking lot. From inside, there are no sounds of children playing. No laughter. No teachers calling out names.

Just the distant hum of traffic. The chirp of a single sparrow perched on the fence. And the soft, even breathing of a very small girl.

Y/n is left alone.

The steps are warm through the thin cotton of her sundress. A small pink backpack rests beside her, unzipped, a crumpled juice box peeking out. She's been sitting here for what feels like forever.

The sparrow hops closer.

A streetlamp clicks on, casting a pool of orange light a few feet away.

The sky bleeds from blue to pink to purple.

And then, from behind the cherry tree near the fence—the one with the gnarled, twisted roots—a voice speaks, soft and light, like air.