Lara jerked back to the present, her breath catching like she'd been underwater too long.
Her hands were trembling. Her chest tight.
The classroom photo blurred in her vision.
"…that wasn't…" she started, then stopped.
Her voice came out smaller than she expected.
"…that wasn't normal."
No child should sit that still.
But it made sense.
"…I learned not to move," she whispered.
Because in that forest, moving meant being seen.
And being seen— meant dying.
...
She looked at the photo book in her hand. She flipped faster now.
She flipped again.
She was in grade two.
It was a group activity. Children gathered in clusters, laughing, leaning into each other, messy and loud.
And then, there she was at the edge.
She was not included, and they were intentional.
Her classmates treated her like furniture, like a background.
Lara's chest tightened.
Why didn't anyone call me over? The question came automatically.
Did I do something wrong?
And that's when it hit her—
