Most people in Elmswood avoided the forest.

They said the trees whispered things you weren’t meant to hear. That if you went in too deep, the woods would remember your name—and worse, call it back to you when you were alone.

Sage never believed in stories meant to scare children. She believed in facts, in wildflowers that bloomed out of season, in the way roots tangled under the soil like veins. The forest didn’t frighten her—it fascinated her. It was the only place she felt quiet inside.

Her small cottage stood just beyond the last line of houses, pressed up against the woods like it had always belonged there. Most days after school, she’d drop her bag by the door, grab her weathered sketchbook, and slip into the trees. No one ever followed her. They knew better.

That afternoon, the light was strange—golden but muted, like the sun had decided to speak in riddles. Sage noticed right away. She paused at the edge of the woods, letting the breeze brush her face, eyes scanning the horizon like something might appear if she just waited long enough.

She stepped into the trees.

Everything felt… still. Birds weren’t singing. The air had a weight to it, thick with the scent of moss and old rain. It wasn’t fear she felt exactly, but something closer to awareness—like the woods were watching her.

She moved carefully, taking her usual path by memory. The trail twisted along a shallow creek, lined with wild herbs and stones she’d arranged into patterns weeks ago. But today, one stone had moved. It wasn’t hers. It was smooth, round, and covered in a thin layer of green moss—and on its surface, a strange symbol had been carved. A spiral within a triangle, etched deep like it had been burned into the rock itself.

Sage crouched, reaching out to brush away the moss when—

“Sage.”

She froze.

The whisper wasn’t loud, but it wasn’t distant either. It was close. Very close. The kind of voice that presses against the back of your neck and knows things you haven’t said out loud.

She stood up slowly, heart pounding in her chest. “Who’s there?” she called out, trying to sound steady.

No answer. Just the rustle of leaves and the sharp cry of a crow overhead.

She turned in a slow circle, searching the shadows between the trees. There was no one. But something in her gut told her she wasn’t alone.

Then she saw it. A path she had never noticed before—narrow, overgrown, yet clearly walked by something. And at its entrance stood an old tree, split in the middle like lightning had struck it long ago. In the split, something shimmered. Not light exactly, but a flicker, like the edge of a dream you can’t quite catch.

She should’ve turned back. She knew that.

But Sage had never been good at ignoring the things that called to her.

And the woods were calling.

⸻

To be continued…

The split tree loomed like a doorway no one had opened in a long time.

Sage stood still for a moment, notebook pressed to her chest. She hadn’t taken a step yet—but her mind already had. There was something waiting down that overgrown path. Something quiet and ancient. And somehow, she knew it was waiting for her.

Her fingers brushed the strange symbol carved into the stone beside her. Spiral inside a triangle. It tingled slightly under her touch, like heat after lightning.

She took a breath.

Then another.

And stepped forward.

The narrow trail twisted and narrowed quickly, thick with brambles and roots that curled like fingers reaching up from the earth. The deeper she walked, the stranger everything became—not just quieter, but wrong in small, subtle ways. The birds didn’t sing. The air didn’t move. Trees bent toward her like they were listening.

Then came the scent—something not of forest, but of smoke and lavender, sharp and familiar.

It stopped her in her tracks.

She knew that scent. It had clung to her grandmother’s clothes. The same grandmother who’d vanished in these woods three years ago and was never found.

Sage’s breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t thought of her in weeks—not really. The town said she got lost, wandered too far into the trees. But Sage had always wondered if that was just a story they told because the truth was harder to explain.

And now the forest smelled like her.

She kept walking, slower now, heart loud in her ears. Her notebook bounced lightly against her side with every step. She hadn’t written in it since entering the woods. She didn’t know what to say.

After several more twists in the trail, she reached a clearing.

It was small and circular, with grass so green it looked unnatural. In the center stood a stone structure—like an altar or table—half-buried in ivy. But what caught Sage’s eye wasn’t the altar.

It was what lay on top of it.

Her notebook.

Wide open. Pages flipping gently in a breeze that didn’t touch the trees.

But that couldn’t be. She was still carrying her notebook—she looked down to check, hand moving to her bag.

Gone.

She blinked. Once. Twice. Her bag was light.

There was only one notebook. And it was there.

As she stepped into the clearing, the whisper returned.

“You came.”

Sage spun around, eyes scanning the treeline, voice catching in her throat.

“Who’s there?”

No answer.

But the air shifted. The trees seemed to lean back, giving her space. And the shadows gathered at the edge of the clearing like they were watching.

She turned back to the notebook on the altar and walked toward it. The pages had stopped flipping. They were open to a page she didn’t remember writing—one filled with symbols, some familiar, some not. Beneath them, in delicate handwriting she did recognize, was a note.

Her grandmother’s handwriting.

If you find this, you’re closer than I ever was.

Do not trust the first voice.

Follow the wind, not the whispers.

You are meant for more than watching.

Sage’s hands trembled as she touched the page.

Then, from the edge of the clearing, a figure appeared.

Cloaked. Tall. Face hidden in shadow. Watching her.

It didn’t speak.

But the forest did.

Sage… run.

⸻

To be continued…

The voice echoed through her bones.

Sage… run.

But she didn’t.

Not yet.

The cloaked figure stood motionless at the edge of the clearing, a shadow within shadows. It didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just watched.

Sage’s pulse roared in her ears. Every instinct told her to run—but her feet stayed planted. Her eyes flicked back to the notebook, still open to her grandmother’s message.

“Do not trust the first voice.”

What if the whisper that told her to run was the first voice? What if it wasn’t trying to help—but trying to mislead?

She took a cautious step back from the altar. The figure didn’t move. Not a twitch.

Another step.

Still nothing.

And then—

The air shifted. Not heavy anymore, but sharp. Cool. A breeze curled around her, brushing past her ears with a sound so faint it barely existed.

A song.

A lullaby.

It came and went like a dream. She knew that melody. Her grandmother used to hum it in the garden, hands buried in the earth, soft voice barely above the buzzing of bees.

Follow the wind, not the whispers.

Sage turned toward the breeze. The figure was behind her now. She didn’t look back.

She ran.

Branches clawed at her arms. Twigs snagged her sweater. The forest blurred around her as she followed the song, deeper and deeper, until it was no longer sound but instinct.

Behind her, something moved.

Not footsteps.

Gliding.

Still, she didn’t turn around. Just ran harder.

She burst through a curtain of vines—and into stillness.

A second clearing. This one felt different. It wasn’t wild. It was deliberate. Circular stone walls rose around her, etched with ancient symbols that pulsed faintly like sleeping stars. Ivy crawled up the edges, but the design underneath was clear—old, and powerful.

At the center lay a pool, perfectly still, so clear it reflected the sky.

Only… it wasn’t the sky above her.

It was night. Full stars. Galaxies. A sky she’d never seen before.

And there, standing beside the pool, was a woman.

She looked younger than Sage remembered, but the face was the same. The silver streak in her dark hair. The small scar on her left cheek. The quiet power behind her eyes.

“…Grandma?” Sage whispered.

The woman turned, slowly, a soft smile breaking across her face. It didn’t reach her lips—it started in her eyes.

“You found me, little one.”

Sage stared, rooted to the spot.

It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be.

Her grandmother took a slow step toward her, but not threatening—gentle, like approaching a deer in the woods.

“You’ve grown,” she said. Her voice was exactly the same. “You came farther than I ever did.”

Sage’s throat tightened. “What is this place?”

Her grandmother glanced at the pool. “A crossing. Between here… and what waits beyond.”

“Beyond what?”

Another smile. “That’s for you to decide.”

Behind Sage, the air thickened again.

Something—someone—had followed her.

Her grandmother’s face shifted. The warmth faded. She held out her hand.

“You don’t have much time, Sage. If you want answers… you have to trust me.”

⸻

To be continued…