Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYA13ZS8AMHN6YCZ6DHYHBA

Aurora Carter paused at the threshold of the ancient oaks, their gnarled trunks twisted like petrified sentinels in the moonlight. Richmond Park stretched dark and empty behind her, the city's distant hum swallowed by the night, but here, at the edge of the Fae Grove—or Isolde's Grove, as the whispered rumors called it—silence pressed in like a held breath. Her Heartstone Pendant hung heavy against her collarbone, its deep crimson gem pulsing with a warmth that seeped through her jacket, insistent as a second heartbeat. It had drawn her here, flaring to life during her last delivery run through the park's fog-shrouded paths. A faint glow from within the thumbnail-sized stone had flickered in her rearview mirror, urging her back tonight, alone, after midnight. She wasn't one for fairy tales. Cool-headed Rory Carter, delivery girl by day, reluctant Pre-Law dropout by necessity, didn't chase ghosts or fae whispers. But the pendant—given by some anonymous hand slipped into her bag at Silas' bar three nights ago—had proven too uncanny to ignore. It warmed near thresholds, the note had said. Portals. Hel's gates or something older. And now it throbbed, pulling her into this hidden clearing pocketed between worlds. Rory glanced at her phone: 1:17 AM. No signal, of course. She pocketed it and stepped forward, boots crunching softly on dew-slick grass that shouldn't have been so lush in late autumn. Wildflowers bloomed riotously around her—violets and foxgloves unfurling petals like defiant flags against the chill—year-round, unnatural even for this fae-touched place. The standing stones loomed at the boundary, massive oaks shaped by hands long forgotten, their bark etched with runes that caught the moon's pale light and seemed to shift when she blinked. The air thickened as she crossed the line. A subtle wrongness settled in her chest, not fear exactly, but a prickle like static before a storm. She rolled her shoulders, breath fogging faintly despite the pendant's heat. Cool-headed, she reminded herself. Observe. Think. The grove opened before her: a perfect circle of knee-high grass starred with flowers, ringed by those sentinel oaks. No wind stirred the leaves, yet the flowers nodded as if caressed. She walked the perimeter, fingers brushing the rough bark of the nearest stone. Solid. Real. But the pendant pulsed harder, its silver chain warming her skin. A sound—not a sound, really. A hush, like silk dragged over stone. Rory froze, blue eyes scanning the shadows. Nothing. Just the grove, isolated and still. She exhaled, chiding her pulse. Imagination, fueled by too many late nights above Silas' bar, hearing Eva's wild stories of fae crossings. But she pressed on, toward the center where a flat slab of moss-covered granite waited, ancient and unyielding. Kneeling, she examined it. No markings, no glow. The pendant dangled forward, its crimson heart glowing brighter, casting a faint ruddy light on the stone. Warmth spread up her neck, almost comforting. Then, peripherally, movement. A sway in the flowers to her left, beyond the stone circle. She snapped her head around. Wind? No breeze touched her hair—straight black strands lay still against her shoulders. The flowers settled, innocent. Rory stood slowly, height at five-foot-six giving her a clear view over the blooms. The oaks encircled them, branches interlocking overhead like a cathedral vault. Moonlight filtered through in silver shafts, illuminating motes of pollen that drifted without current. Another hush. Closer this time, from behind the slab. Like footsteps, but muffled, as if bare feet padded on the moss. Rory's scar itched on her left wrist—a small crescent from a childhood tumble off her father's garden wall—and she rubbed it absently, grounding herself. "Hello?" Her voice cut the silence, too loud, echoing oddly back from the stones. No answer. Just the flowers, blooming defiantly. She circled the slab, boots silent now on the plush grass. The pendant's pulse quickened, syncing with her own heart—a steady thrum-thrum that vibrated in her teeth. Something off about the moonlight: the shadows under the oaks stretched too long, pooling like ink at their bases. She blinked hard. Tricks of the eye. Fatigue from the day's deliveries—Yu-Fei's endless orders through London's rain-slick streets. But the certainty gnawed: she was not alone. It started as a whisper in her mind, born from the hush that returned, now from the right. A rustle, deliberate. Leaves parting. Rory pivoted, hand slipping into her jacket pocket for the pocketknife she always carried—Evan's shadow had taught her that much. Edge of vision: a flicker. Tall, elongated, gone when she turned fully. Her breath caught. Imagination. Keep moving. She checked her phone again. 1:19 AM. Only two minutes? She'd been here fifteen, at least. Time's quirk, the rumors said—an hour inside minutes or days outside. She pocketed it, forcing logic. Test it. Walk the circle again. One stone to the next, counting strides. Ten. The bark felt... slick under her palm, like sap, but her fingers came away dry. The flowers nodded again, petals brushing her jeans. Too vibrant, their scents cloying—honeysuckle and night-blooming jasmine, heavy as perfume in a crypt. The hush circled with her now. Behind. To the left. Mocking her pace, soft pads echoing her boots but feather-light. Rory stopped abruptly. It stopped too. Heart hammering, she waited. Nothing. Then, faintly, a sigh. Exhalation from the shadows, warm breath on her neck. She whipped around. Empty grass. But the air stirred, carrying a scent—earthy, like turned soil after rain, mingled with something sweeter, rotting fruit. "Not funny," she muttered, voice steady despite the chill racing her spine. Cool-headed. Think out of the box. The pendant—focus on it. She clutched the gem, its glow intensifying, warmth flooding her palm. It pointed inward, toward the slab. Answers there? She approached again, slower, ears straining. The rustles multiplied: flutters at the periphery, like wings too large for moths. Shapes darted between oaks—slim silhouettes, elongated limbs folding into bark. Gone when focused. Her scar burned now, a phantom itch syncing with the pendant's pulse. Kneeling once more, she traced the slab's edges. Moss yielded under her nails, cool and damp. Beneath, a faint seam. Pressure? She leaned her weight—nothing. The sighs returned, plural now, weaving through the flowers. Whispers? No words, just sibilance, like wind through hollow reeds. Rory's neck hairs stood. She rose, backing away. The oaks loomed closer, their branches dipping lower, shadows merging into tendrils that quested across the grass. Phone: 1:22 AM. Impossible. Sweat beaded her forehead despite the night's bite. The wrongness swelled—not panic, but a viscous dread pooling in her gut. She was watched. Cataloged. The flowers turned toward her, petals unfurling like eyes. Ridiculous. She blinked them away, but the nodding persisted, rhythmic. A step. Clear this time, from the far oak. Bare foot on grass, wet slap. Rory spun. Nothing. But her own boot print in the dew—beside it, another. Smaller, toes splayed unnaturally, five on each foot but the big one elongated. Fresh. Her breath stuttered. Backpedal. The pendant scorched now, glow pulsing erratically, crimson light fracturing shadows into claws. The circle tightened. Oaks creaked, wood groaning without wind. Branches whispered overhead, leaves rustling in a chorus that mimicked laughter—high, tinkling, wrong. Shapes solidified at vision's edge: figures stooped and elongated, skin like birch bark, eyes hollow glints. They didn't approach. Just watched. Multiplied. Ten, twenty, ringed in the gloom. Rory bolted for the boundary stones. Hushes pursued—pads multiplying, sighs harmonizing. Flowers whipped at her legs, thorns snagging denim. She vaulted a stone—no, it moved, bark yielding like flesh. Landed hard, rolling. The pendant swung wild, its chain biting her neck. Phone out: 1:25 AM. Screamed internally. Time fracturing. The grove exhaled—air compressing, flowers blooming faster, petals exploding in hyper-growth. Shadows lunged peripherally, fingers brushing her hair. Not touching. Teasing. She ran. Zigzag through oaks, their trunks parting then snapping shut. Whispers chased: fragments now. "Rory... Laila... stay..." Aliases from her past—Eva's nicknames, Evan's snarls. How? The slab's glow erupted behind, crimson mirroring the pendant. Out. Must get out. Boundary ahead—stones pulsing with inner light. A shape barred it: tall, faceless, limbs dangling like vines. It tilted, head cocking. Rory feinted left, dashed right. Claws raked air inches from her back—cold wind, reeking of rot. She burst through. Park grass, normal, sparse. Oaks solid behind. Phone: 1:27 AM. Gasping, she stumbled onward, pendant cooling, glow fading. But the sighs followed. Faint. From the grove's edge. Watching still. Not alone. Never again. Rory didn't look back. Richmond Park swallowed her steps, but the certainty clung: the grove remembered. And it hungered for return. (Word count: 1247)