The path she shouldn’t follow

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.

⸻