Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNFEXMR6TEQG59HB8MN6XBK

The crescent moon cast jagged shadows through the ancient oaks as Rory stepped past the standing stones. Her breath plumed in the cold air despite it being late spring, the unnatural chill raising gooseblesh along her arms. The Heartstone pulsed against her collarbone—three slow throbs like a warning heartbeat. She shouldn’t have come. Not this late. Not alone. But after three nights of the same recurring dream—the grove, the whispering stones, the faceless figure beckoning from between the trees—resistance had worn thin. Now, beneath the twisted branches, reality felt thin too. The wildflowers scattered across the clearing bloomed too vividly, their petals unnaturally crisp in the moonlight. The air smelled of damp earth and something sweetly metallic—like rust and honey. Rory crouched to examine a cluster of bluebells. Their stems stretched toward her, swaying despite the still air. When she reached out, they recoiled. A sharp intake of breath escaped her as she jerked back. “Okay,” she muttered, rubbing her left wrist where the childhood scar itched. “Not normal.” Wind surged through the clearing without warning, flattening the grass in concentric circles around her. The oak stones hummed—a low, discordant vibration Rory felt in her teeth. She turned, pulse rabbiting in her throat, but saw only shifting shadows between the trees. The pendant burned suddenly hot against her skin. She fumbled for it, fingers closing around the crimson stone just as a child’s laughter rippled through the grove. No. Not laughter. Too crystalline, too deliberate. Wind chimes mimicked by a human voice. Rory straightened, shoulders tight. “Hello?” The word sounded pitifully small. The response came not from the trees but from the ground itself—a whisper through roots and soil, rising like steam. Ļ̴̒ã̵̗͐͒i̷̖̒̈́l̸̥̉͠a̴̺̎. Her mother’s name for her. No one had called her that since she’d left Cardiff. Something cracked behind her. Rory spun, catching only retreating movement in her periphery—a flash of bone-white between the oaks. The grass where it had stood now wilted black, tendrils of decay spiderwebbing outward until they halted inches from her boots. Her throat clenched. Whatever watched her wasn’t hiding anymore. It was herding. The wind stilled. The grove held its breath. Even the ever-blooming flowers seemed to shrink away as the whispers coalesced into singular words: Wrong season. Wrong flesh. Above, branches creaked. Rory looked up slowly. Among the twisting limbs, something long-limbed and pallid clung upside down, its elongated fingers curled around the bough like roots. Where a face should’ve been, there was only smooth skin stretched too tight over sharp angles, mouth stitched shut with black thread. The thing cocked its head. The stitching tore with a sound like ripping linen. Rory ran. Brambles lashed at her jeans as she wove between the oaks, always just shy of snagging her. Behind her, wet footfalls squelched against the earth, keeping pace but never closing distance. A game. The realization chilled her more than pursuit. She skidded to a halt before the standing stones—only to find the exit gone. The oaks had shifted, their trunks forming an impenetrable wall. Soft, cloying laughter circled her. The pendant seared her palm as she squeezed it. “Dymas,” she gasped—the only name she had for the stone’s giver. “If you’re listening, now would be great.” Silence. Then, as if in answer, warmth spread from the Heartstone up her arm, threading through her veins like liquid gold. The night brightened at the edges, shadows retreating to reveal the true stones just five yards left of where she stood. The creature hissed as Rory lunged for them. She crossed the boundary with the sensation of breaking through a spider’s web. The grove air—heavy with moss and time—snapped into the clean chill of Richmond Park. Dawn light streaked the horizon. Rory staggered, catching herself against a normal, unremarkable oak as her knees buckled. Four minutes had passed on her phone. The Heartstone cooled against her chest, inert once more. Rory exhaled shakily. The thing in the grove didn’t follow. Couldn’t, perhaps. But as she turned toward home, she caught a single bluebell growing at the base of the park oak—impossibly vibrant, petals edged in frost. It wilted as she watched, curling inward until only a blackened husk remained. Tucking the pendant beneath her shirt, Rory walked faster, the weight of unseen eyes prickling between her shoulder blades all the way home.