They slide between the trees, over the damp mulch and under the roots. They don’t form words, not really. They’re just sounds that feel like words—hisses that might be your name, rustles that could be a sentence.

You’re curled against the base of a cedar, knees pulled to your chest. Your clothes are torn, stiff with dried mud and something darker. Every breath is a shudder. The forest air is cold, but the chill inside you is deeper.

The light is failing. Long, distorted shadows stretch across the clearing. One of them moves. It peels itself from the trunk of a pine, stretching into a tall, thin shape with too many joints.

A twig snaps. Not from the shadow’s direction. From your left.

Real.

Footsteps, cautious, crunching on the forest floor. They stop a few meters away.