Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX7YB2MSEYGBH4GNWY5P0J

Rain had slicked the paths of Richmond Park long before Aurora stepped off the cracked tarmac onto the damp grass. Her boots sank slightly into the earth, muffled by moss and fallen leaves. The city’s glow dimmed behind her, smothered by ancient oaks and the thick, breathing dark. She pulled her jacket tighter, fingers brushing the Heartstone pendant beneath the fabric. It pulsed once—soft, warm—like a drowsy heartbeat against her skin. She shouldn’t be here. The text had come three hours ago, scrambled through the restaurant’s burner app—*Eva missing. Grove. Come alone.* No signature. No proof. But the sender knew things only Eva would know. The codeword. The old nickname. The way they used to sign off with that stupid, childish rhyme. Rory had tried calling. Nothing. Sent texts. No reply. Then she checked the pendant. It had been cold for weeks—dormant since the night she'd fled Cardiff and Evan’s grip loosened like a rusted noose. But tonight, it sparked. Flickered like a dying bulb. When she held it up in the dim light of her flat, the crimson gem throbbed in rhythm with something beneath the floorboards. As if the city itself was holding its breath. Now, stepping past the first of the standing stones, she felt the shift. The air thickened. Not just colder—denser. Her breath didn’t plume. The rain had stopped, but the trees dripped anyway, each drop hitting the ground with a sound too crisp, too deliberate. *Plink. Plink. Plink.* Like glass beads on stone. She counted the oaks—one, two, three—her pace slowing. Five standing stones formed a rough circle ahead, gnarled and split with age, bark blackened as though scorched and never healed. Between them, the grove opened into a clearing where wildflowers glowed faintly under moonlight that didn’t exist when she’d entered the park. Time didn’t move here. Or it moved wrong. She stepped through. The pendant warmed instantly, a low hum rising in her chest. Rory froze, scanning the edges. Nothing moved. The flowers—bluebells, buttercups, things that shouldn’t bloom in November—swayed without wind. Their petals shimmered with a faint luminescence, casting pale halos on the moss. Beautiful. Wrong. “Eva?” Her voice didn’t echo. It just… disappeared. She took another step. Then another. The ground gave slightly, spongy beneath her feet. She glanced down. Tiny white mushrooms had sprouted where her boot had pressed. Already unfolding. Already watching. A whisper threaded through the trees. Not words. Not language. A breath. A syllable caught between teeth. Rory turned. Nothing. But the pendant—hotter now, almost prickling. She didn’t pull it out. Didn’t want to see it. Knew it was glowing. Something shuffled behind the farthest stone. She pivoted, hand snapping to the knife at her belt—just a delivery driver’s tool, not meant for this. The shape behind the stone didn’t step out. Didn’t have to. Its shadow did. Tall. Too tall. Limbs too long, joints bending where they shouldn’t. The shadow stretched across the moss, fingers twitching as if testing the air. Then—gone. Swallowed by the bark. “Who’s there?” Silence. Then, from her left: A giggle. High. Childlike. Eva’s laugh used to sound like that—before the world wore it down, before she started sleeping with the lights on. Rory ran toward it. “Eva! If this is some sick joke—” She stopped at the center of the clearing. A ring of red mushrooms circled a single, stunted oak. At its base lay a jacket. Pink. Leather. Tattered at the sleeves. Eva’s. Rory dropped to her knees, fingers trembling as she touched the collar. Smelled like smoke. Like old perfume. Like nothing at all. The pendant flared—searing. She yanked it out, chain clinking. The crimson gem pulsed like a raw nerve, light bleeding into the grove’s false moonlight. And then— A footstep. Behind her. She turned slowly. No one. But the flowers. All around the ring. They were no longer facing the center. Every bloom, every delicate face, now turned toward her. Another step. Closer. She stood, backing away from the tree. The jacket. The mushrooms. The air tasted metallic. Like licking a battery. Then—her name. “Rory…” Not Eva. Not close. It came from everywhere. A layered voice. Several mouths speaking at once. One high. One guttural. One weeping. “Rory… you shouldn’t… be here…” She gripped the knife, breath coming in short, silent bursts. “Show yourself.” The standing stones groaned. Not wind. Not wood. A deep, wet creak, like jaws opening. A figure stepped between two oaks. Tall. Wearing Eva’s face. But wrong. Its skin clung too tightly to the bones, stretched like damp parchment. Eyes too wide, pupils black and split vertically. It smiled. Too many teeth. All small. All sharp. It raised a hand. Offered something. A phone. Eva’s phone. Rory didn’t move. The thing tilted its head. “She’s waiting,” it said. Three tones in one sentence. One of them almost real. “I don’t believe you,” Rory said, voice steady. She didn’t. Not really. Not with the pendant screaming against her chest, and the flowers twitching like eyelids. The figure stepped forward. One foot. Then another. Its boots didn’t sink into the moss. They hovered just above. “She left this for you,” it whispered. It extended the phone. Screen lit. A photo displayed: Rory’s sleeping face, taken from above. The night before. In her flat. Her blood turned to ice. The pendant blazed. She didn’t hear the scream. Felt it. In her teeth. In her ribs. A sound without sound. And then the thing moved. Not walked. *Snapped* forward, like a frame skipped in film. Rory stumbled back, knife up. The thing’s smile widened. “She’s already gone,” it said. And this time, all three voices were Eva’s. One young. One terrified. One dead. The Heartstone flared once—blinding red. She turned and ran. Branches didn’t scrape. They reached. Fingers of ivy lashed at her coat. The ground shifted underfoot, roots rising like tendons. She didn’t look back. Couldn’t. The standing stones loomed. She lunged through, shoulder slamming into bark. She burst out— Cold city air hit her like a slap. Rain. Traffic. Headlights. She collapsed to her hands and knees on the path, gasping. Silence. Normal silence. Distant sirens. A dog barking. She turned. The gap between the trees where she’d entered—empty. Just shadow. Just trees. Her hand flew to her chest. The pendant was gone. Only a faint burn mark on her shirt. And the smell of burnt sugar clinging to her skin. Somewhere, deep behind her, a flower bloomed in the dark.