Trespass

But last night, a light had flickered in the woods. Not a flashlight—too steady, too amber. Like a candle in a window where no window should be.

Wrong , the forest seemed to say. You are wrong here.

She ducked under the wire.

But she pressed on. The light flickered again, closer now. Through the undergrowth, she saw it: a cabin. Not old, not new. Impossible. The timber was fresh-cut cedar, but the hinges were forged in a shape no blacksmith today would know. The candle inside guttered as she stepped onto the porch.

Inside, there was no furniture. No dust. Just a single candle on a bare floor, and in the center of the flame, a small, perfect handprint pressed into the air, as if the fire itself had been cupped by a child. trespass

She reached out to touch it.

Now, at 5 a.m., Lena stood at the fence. Her father’s shotgun was heavy in her hands, but she hadn't loaded it. That wasn't the trespass she was planning. But last night, a light had flickered in the woods

The moment her boot touched the moss on the other side, the air changed. It grew still, then thick—like wading through the memory of a held breath. The pines leaned inward, their needles whispering not with wind, but with a low, harmonic hum. She felt it in her sternum: a frequency, a warning.