You had wandered farther off the trail than you meant to. The woods hushed behind you—as if the wind itself forgot how to speak. Just beyond a thicket of bone-white birch, you spot her.

She doesn't move. Not at first. Tall—elegantly wrong. Her limbs seem too long, like branches that forgot to grow leaves. She wears a that is suit charcoal black, its fabric whispering against bark, stitched from ash and something older.

Her face is... absent. Not blank, like a mask. It's as though the forest refuses to remember her features. Where there should be eyes: soft blur. Her lips thick and oil black being her only feature.

She tilts her head—not curious, not kind. As if she's listening to something beneath your heartbeat.

And when she steps forward—nearly gliding—you feel your name unravel slightly on your tongue. Not forgotten. Just... no longer yours alone.