They moved through the thinning mist in silence.
Morning light bled weakly through the trees, turning the fog into sheets of gold and silver. Each step crunched against frost-bitten leaves. The air smelled faintly of rot and wet iron — like rain that had forgotten to fall.
Soufiane led the way, eyes scanning for movement.
The vision of the woman in the red scarf lingered in his mind — not as a memory, but as something living, breathing, watching.
Behind him, Cynthia carried Younes on her back. The boy had fallen asleep again, but his breathing was uneven, almost shivering. Amal and Mourad walked side by side, whispering about compass readings. Juliane covered their flank, ever alert.
No one spoke of what they'd seen. Not yet.
---
By noon, the fog had begun to scatter. The forest opened into a long, shallow valley dotted with the ruins of a small village — stone walls, shattered roofs, cars half-swallowed by moss. A sign lay face-down in the dirt. Juliane flipped it over with her boot:
"Les Rochers Saint-Michel."
Cynthia frowned. "Never heard of it."
"Probably erased," Amal said. "Some towns were burned or evacuated before the outbreak reached them. Others just… disappeared."
Mourad squinted at the broken houses. "Disappeared how?"
Amal didn't answer.
---
They entered the village cautiously. The sound of their boots echoed down empty streets. There were no birds. No insects. Just wind whispering through broken windows.
Soufiane stopped near an old fountain filled with dark water. Something red floated on the surface.
It was a scarf.
The same red as blood, frayed at the edges but unmistakably clean — too clean for this place.
He reached out, hesitating, then pulled it from the water. It was cold to the touch, but dry. When he turned it over, he saw something stitched into the fabric:
Z. H.
His breath caught. "Zahira Hamani…"
Juliane looked over his shoulder. "Your sister?"
He nodded slowly, eyes wide with disbelief. "It can't be. She—she died in Rabat. I saw…"
Before he could finish, Younes's voice broke the silence. "She's calling you."
Everyone turned. The boy was standing now, pale and trembling, pointing toward one of the ruined houses.
"She's inside."
---
Soufiane hesitated, then started forward. Amal grabbed his arm. "Wait. That thing — it's using her again. You touch it, it'll pull you in."
He looked back at her, voice cracking. "And what if it's not? What if it's really her?"
Amal opened her mouth to argue — then stopped. His eyes were filled with something too human to fight.
Juliane stepped up beside them, weapon raised. "We go in together."
---
The house was dark, the floor soft with dust and decay. Every creak of the wood sounded like footsteps. The light from their lanterns glowed against the cracked walls, revealing faint handprints smeared in ash.
Then — movement.
A shadow darted across the back room.
Soufiane rushed forward, pushing open a half-broken door. And there she was.
A woman in a red scarf stood in the corner, her face hidden by strands of black hair. Her posture was strange — rigid, like she was trying to remember how to breathe.
"Zahira?" Soufiane whispered.
The figure lifted her head. Her eyes — gray and shimmering — met his.
"Brother," she said softly. "You came back."
Soufiane took a step closer. His rifle lowered. His voice broke. "How—how are you alive?"
Zahira smiled faintly. "Alive?" She tilted her head. "Is that what this is?"
Before anyone could react, she raised her hand — and the air rippled, like heat bending light. The walls shuddered. From the cracks in the floor, a low hum began to rise — the same whispering from the forest, now clearer, sharper.
Soufiane fell to his knees, clutching his head. He could hear voices — dozens, hundreds — calling his name, merging with Zahira's tone.
"You shouldn't have left," she said. "Now the forest remembers you too."
Amal shouted, "Get out! It's projecting through her!"
Juliane fired a single shot into the wall near Zahira's feet — the echo snapped through the house, breaking the trance. The red-scarved woman vanished into mist.
Soufiane gasped, staring at the empty space where she had stood. The scarf still lay in his hand — but now, it was wet with blood.
---
They stumbled out of the house, shaken and silent. The sky had turned gray again. The mist was creeping back down the valley, slow and deliberate.
Amal knelt by Soufiane, checking his pulse. "It didn't possess you. You resisted. That's something."
Soufiane stared at the scarf, his voice hollow. "She said the forest remembers me. What the hell does that mean?"
Amal looked around, unease deepening in her expression. "It means… we're not just walking through it anymore."
---
As they left the ruined village, Younes looked over his shoulder one last time. In the distance, through the mist, a woman stood among the trees — the same red scarf glowing faintly in the gray.
She didn't move.
But as the wind shifted, the group heard it again — that soft, familiar voice whispering through the air:
"Come home."