Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMME8ESM4X9W8JQ6FQFZFWR

The night air was thick with the scent of damp earth and something older, something wild. Rory adjusted the strap of her messenger bag, the Heartstone Pendant tucked safely beneath her shirt, its warmth a steady pulse against her skin. She hadn’t wanted to come—not really—but the note had been insistent, scrawled in Eva’s hurried handwriting: *Meet me at the Grove. Midnight. Don’t tell anyone.* Eva had been acting strange for weeks, ever since that night at Silas’ bar when she’d whispered about the standing stones and the things that moved between them. Rory had dismissed it as exhaustion, the stress of her new job at the hospital, but then the note had arrived, slipped under her door while she was out on a delivery. And now here she was, stepping past the ancient oaks that marked the boundary of the Fae Grove, her boots sinking into the soft, mossy ground. The clearing opened before her, bathed in silver moonlight that filtered through the canopy above. Wildflowers glowed faintly in the dark, their petals shimmering like scattered stars. The air hummed, not with the usual sounds of the park—no distant traffic, no rustling of foxes or owls—but with something else, something that prickled at the edges of her hearing. A whisper, maybe. Or the wind moving through leaves that weren’t there. Rory exhaled sharply, her breath curling in the cold air. "Eva?" Her voice sounded too loud, too sharp in the quiet. No answer. She stepped forward, her fingers brushing the bark of one of the standing stones. It was warm, as if the sun had only just set, though the rest of the world was deep in night. The Heartstone Pendant throbbed against her chest, its crimson glow bleeding through the fabric of her shirt. Something moved at the edge of her vision. She turned, her pulse quickening. Nothing. Just the sway of branches, the shifting shadows of the wildflowers. But the air had grown heavier, pressing against her skin like a held breath. She swallowed, forcing herself to walk deeper into the grove, her boots making no sound on the soft earth. Then she heard it—a rustle, too deliberate to be the wind. She froze, her fingers curling into fists. "Eva, if this is some kind of joke—" A twig snapped. Rory spun, her heart hammering. The clearing was empty, but the wrongness had solidified, thick and suffocating. The wildflowers trembled, though there was no breeze. The standing stones seemed to lean inward, their shadows stretching unnaturally long. And then, from the darkness beyond the trees, a voice—soft, melodic, and utterly inhuman. *"Little lost thing..."* She backed away, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The Heartstone Pendant burned against her skin, its glow now a steady, urgent pulse. She fumbled for it, pulling it free from her shirt. The crimson light cast eerie shadows across the clearing, illuminating the wildflowers that now seemed to *watch* her, their petals twitching like eyes. Something was wrong. Eva wasn’t here. She’d never been here. Rory turned to run, but the path behind her was gone. In its place stood a wall of thorns, their barbs glistening with something dark and wet. She stumbled back, her boots slipping on the damp earth. The voice came again, closer this time, whispering from the trees, from the stones, from the very air around her. *"You shouldn’t have come."* The Heartstone flared, its light searing her vision. For a moment, she saw them—the figures lurking at the edges of the clearing, their forms shifting between solid and smoke. Tall, too tall, their limbs too long, their faces stretched into grins that split their skulls like overripe fruit. They didn’t move toward her. Not yet. They just watched, their laughter a dry, clicking sound, like bones knocking together. Rory’s hands shook as she clutched the pendant. She knew, with a cold, sinking certainty, that she wasn’t supposed to be here. That she’d crossed a line she couldn’t uncross. The grove wasn’t just a place. It was a mouth, and she had walked right into its open jaws. The wildflowers at her feet began to writhe, their stems twisting like serpents. The standing stones groaned, their surfaces rippling like water. And then, from the darkness, a hand—pale, skeletal, its fingers too many—reached out and brushed her shoulder. Rory screamed.