Bradley disappears into the kitchen, the soft sounds of clinking reaching your ears like distant bells.
You picture him preparing another tray—perhaps more biscuits, maybe something stranger. Whatever it is, he seems preoccupied.
You sit outside the doorway, pulled between a hundred emotions.
The forest hums around you, unsettling and persistent. Your mind drifts toward home—the blanket, the familiar lamp glow, even the rustle of city traffic.
Here, everything feels greyed-out. Soggy. Not like a storybook, but like a nightmare written in muddy ink.
A squirrel darts past, its acorn clutched tightly, eyes darting with caution. You watch it disappear into the brush and find your own thoughts scrambling just the same.
Sleep tugs at your eyelids. You remember now—you barely slept before being sucked into this world, and you've been sprinting, facing wolves and terrifying situations ever since.
There's no safe place here.
Your shoulders tense without warning. Something brushes the edge of your awareness—a shift in the air, a change in the silence.
Your body, suddenly aware of a vivid presence near you, stiffens before your mind catches up. You turn your head.
Golden eyes.
Shimmering, unblinking.
Surrounded by pure white fur like snow clinging to moonlight.
Trida.
She stands too close.
You jolt backward, arms thrown up in some flailing version of karate readiness. Your legs forget how to balance from a tired numbness and you stumble hard, head cracking against the iron hinge of the door. Pain flashes, and the world tilts.
Colors smear. Sounds stretch.
And as your eyes close, darkness fills your vision—not like sleep, but like something deeper.
Like the forest has reached out and finally caught you.