For a moment, Emily thought she had truly escaped.
The morning light streaming through her window felt too soft, too safe to be anything else. The charm on her nightstand glowed faintly, its warmth spreading through the air like the heartbeat of a world reborn.
But peace in Birchwood had always been a fragile thing.
The wind shifted.
And the light in the room dimmed.
Emily's breath caught as her reflection in the glass window flickered—first once, then twice. Her own eyes stared back at her, but they weren't hers anymore. They were dark, hollow, and full of something ancient.
A voice slid through the air, low and cold.
"You broke the rhyme, Seeker."
Emily's heart pounded. "No… I ended it."
The whisper deepened into a growl. "You rewrote it. You defied it. The forest does not forget."
The charm on her nightstand pulsed sharply, almost as if warning her. The glow turned red.
Emily grabbed it, clutching it tight. "You're gone. I burned you. You don't belong here anymore."
The window glass cracked.
A gust of wind tore through the room, carrying the scent of pine, damp earth, and rot. Her curtains fluttered violently, though the morning outside had turned pitch black.
And then—
A sound she had prayed never to hear again.
Counting.
One… two… three…
Her chest constricted.
The forest was calling her back.
She ran.
The floorboards creaked beneath her feet as she bolted down the hall, the counting chasing her like breath on her neck. Shadows stretched along the walls, moving in unnatural rhythm.
By the time she reached the front door, the world outside was gone.
No house.
No town.
Only trees.
The forest had found her.
It had crawled out of memory, out of dreams, out of the ashes she thought she'd scattered to the wind.
"Emily," it hissed, voice dripping from every leaf, every root. "You set the fire, but we are born of smoke."
She clutched the charm against her chest. "You can't have me!"
Four… five… six…
The ground shifted beneath her, the earth opening into a gaping hollow.
She ran.
Branches clawed at her skin. Roots rose like serpents, grabbing at her ankles. The forest no longer whispered—it screamed.
Seven… eight… nine…
The world twisted around her. The trees blurred into endless corridors, the sky a swirl of red and black. She couldn't tell where she was running anymore—only that if she stopped, it would swallow her whole.
"Run!"
The voice came from ahead—Devon's voice, faint but clear.
Emily stumbled forward, heart leaping. "Devon?"
Light flared in the distance—a golden glow, pulsing like a beacon.
"The charm!" he shouted. "It's still open!"
Emily gritted her teeth and ran harder. Every step sent waves of agony through her legs, but she didn't stop. She couldn't.
The forest howled around her.
"You cannot outrun yourself!" it roared. "You are what we made you!"
The trees bent inward, closing off the path. Shadows coiled ahead like walls.
Emily's grip on the charm tightened until her knuckles bled. "Then I'll unmake myself, too!"
She hurled the charm forward.
It shattered midair—bursting into blinding light.
The forest screamed.
The golden fire erupted once more, flooding through the trees like molten glass. The shadows shrieked, burning away into dust. But even as they vanished, something larger moved in the dark—a shape forming from the smoke and light, towering and terrible.
It was the forest's true form.
A creature of roots and limbs, its body shaped from trunks and bones, its face a gnarled knot where mouths opened and closed like wounds.
Emily froze in terror as it leaned down, its breath reeking of decay and soil.
"You think memory can kill what was never alive?" it whispered.
"Not kill," Emily said, trembling. "But I can end what remembers."
She reached down and tore the journal from her backpack—the same one she had written every rule, every rhyme, every truth within.
The pages fluttered open on their own, glowing faintly gold. The forest roared, recoiling.
"This was how you survived," Emily said, voice shaking. "Through stories. Through rules. Through me."
The pages began to burn.
"I'm the last page."
The fire spread quickly—devouring the ink, the paper, the bindings. The light it cast grew so bright it burned through the forest's form, carving holes in its chest and shoulders. The creature howled in agony, clawing at itself as the words that gave it power were erased.
"No!" it shrieked. "You cannot unwrite what is eternal!"
But Emily stood her ground. Her hair whipped around her face, her eyes glowing with reflected flame.
"I just did."
She tore the final page free and threw it into the fire.
The light exploded outward.
For a heartbeat, the entire world vanished into pure, blinding brilliance.
When the light dimmed, Emily found herself standing in a clearing she didn't recognize.
The forest was gone. Not burned, not destroyed—simply… dissolved.
The sky above was wide and pale, filled with the song of birds. The grass was fresh beneath her feet.
A voice spoke softly behind her.
"You did it."
She turned. Devon stood there, smiling. Behind him, the other children shimmered faintly in the morning haze.
Emily's eyes filled with tears. "It tried to pull me back."
"It always does," Devon said gently. "It doesn't know how to stop chasing. But you taught it something new."
"What's that?"
He smiled. "When to stop running."
Wren stepped forward, holding what remained of the charm—a single fragment, glowing faintly white. "Keep this," she said. "It's no longer bound to the forest. It's bound to you. It'll keep you safe from what's left of the dark."
Emily took it, the shard warm in her palm. "What about you?"
Lila smiled faintly. "We're already where we need to be."
One by one, they began to fade—light dissolving into morning air.
"Goodbye," Emily whispered.
Their laughter drifted on the wind as they vanished completely.
Emily turned back to the empty field.
The air shimmered faintly, but this time, there was no dread—only peace. The forest's hunger had died in its own pursuit.
She took a deep breath and whispered into the open air:
"I'm not running anymore."
The wind brushed through her hair like a sigh.
Then, softly—just once—she heard it:
Ten.