Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYA2YRAM74TTTC54P62NGD1

The air in Richmond Park bit at Aurora’s cheeks as she adjusted her jacket, the hem of her delivery uniform flapping in the wind. It was 2:17 a.m., according to the crumpled receipt in her pocket—a timestamp from the last note her benefactor had slipped under her door, scrawled in shaky ink: *"Roots. Three oaks. Stop before four. The stone breathes."* She’d recognized "Roots" as the old oak clearing in the northern section of the park, a place she’d only ever visited briefly, once, with Eva when they were teens, hunting for fairies in the dusk. Now, Eva was in Dublin, and the note was the first she’d heard from the unknown person who’d given her the Heartstone pendant six months prior, a crimson gem set in silver that pulsed faintly against her collarbone even now, a low, steady thrum like a distant heartbeat. Her boots crunched over frost-kissed leaves, the park empty but for the rustle of squirrels and the creak of branches. The moon was a sliver, but through the trees, she could make out the shape of the standing stones: three gnarled oaks, their trunks scarred with carvings that blurred at the edges, like the forest itself had tried to erase them. The receipt’s instructions had been precise. *"Breathe with the stones until they answer."* So she slowed, pressed her lips together, and exhaled. In. In. Out. The pendant pulsed faster, a warm tingle that spread down her spine. When she opened her eyes, the sky had dimmed, as if the stars had been snuffed. That was odd—she’d left the city with a full moon, but the clearing loomed in semi-darkness, the air thick with a scent like wet earth and something sweeter, cloying, like overripe berries. The trees seemed closer than she remembered, their branches stretching outward, almost as if to block her path. She reached for her purse, her hand closing around the utility knife Eva had once forced her to carry, "for the subway," she’d said, rolling her eyes. Aurora hadn’t needed it since Evan, but tonight, the blade felt heavy in her palm. *Cool-headed*, she reminded herself. *Rationalize.* The stone breathes. Maybe it’s just the wind. Even so, she took a step closer to the nearest oak, and as her fingers brushed the rough bark, the pendant *lit up*. Not a flash—faint, a soft glow that seeped into the gem, making the crimson color bleed like blood. A sound echoed through the trees: a low, guttural hum, like a cello string plucked too hard. She turned. The forest behind her was now a wall of blackness, no path visible. The stones had shifted, their carvings clearer now, looping patterns that looked like veins or tentacles. *This isn’t right*, she thought. The time behavior—the Grove. The note had mentioned time moving differently, but she’d dismissed it as old wives’ tales. Now, her watch, a cheap thing she’d stolen from a customer, read 2:23. She’d only taken three minutes to walk from the park gates. The grass beneath her feet was unexpectedly warm, as if the earth itself was alive. A twig snapped. She froze. The hum had stopped. The air felt... *charged*, like a storm was coming. She scanned the trees, her eyes narrowing. There—something. A flicker of movement in the corner of her vision, a shadow that wasn’t cast by the moon. She turned, and it was gone. *Paranoia*, she told herself. *You’re tired. You left at 11 p.m. to make a 1 a.m. delivery.* But the pendant’s pulse had quickened, a faint *thump-thump-thump* that matched the rhythm of her heart. She fumbled with the clasp, unbuttoned her jacket, and pulled the chain free. The gem was hot to the touch, nearly burning through her shirt. The clearing opened up suddenly, as if the trees had partedspeeding her way. The Grove. The grass here was green, too green, and wildflowers bloomed everywhere—purple, yellow, white, petals glistening with dew even though the night was freezing. The sky had lightened, though not by much; it was a strange, sickly gray, like a storm cloud smothering the stars. The pendant burned now, the glow so bright she had to squint. There, in the center of the clearing, was a stone: not an oak, but a monolith, smooth and black, etched with runes that glowed when she focused on them. *Hel*, the runes said, blurred but legible. *Hel. Hel. Hel.* That was it—the reason she’d come. The benefactor, who’d hidden their voice when she’d called, had told her the Heartstone led to Hel, a realm on the other side of the Veil, where a soul trapped there could be freed. But Hel was a place of tricks, of illusions. *Don’t trust the shadows*, the benefactor had whispered. *They wear faces.* A sound—something wet, dragging through the grass. Aurora spun. No one was there. But the flowers around her were moving, not in the wind—*against* it, their petals flipping upward as if watching her, revealing undersides that were gray, like rotting flesh. The pendant’s glow intensified, so bright she could see the gem’s facets, sharp as shards of glass. *It’s working*, she thought. *I’m close.* A voice. Soft, breathy, right behind her. "Rory." She whirled. Nothing. The monolith loomed, its runes burning. The hum was back, louder now, a vibration that made her teeth ache. She reached for the knife, her hand slipping—*why is the ground wet?*—and looked down. The grass was oozing, a thick, black substance that smelled of iron and something sweet, cloying. It was spreading, crawling up her boots, as if alive. "Rory," the voice said again, this time closer, in her ear. Aurora flinched, but when she turned, the trees were empty. Her watch read 2:31. She’d been in the Grove for eight minutes. *Eight minutes*. The pendant’s thump-thump-thump was now a roar, a sound that filled her skull. The flowers were closing in, their stems coiling like ropes, thorns emerging from their centers. She backed away, tripping over a root. The monolith was now a wall, its runes so bright she could feel their heat. The wetness had reached her ankles, sticky and cold, like liquid mud. "Malphora," the voice said, and she *knew* it was a name. Her own. A version of her, twisted. "You shouldn’t have come. The Veil is thin here. Too thin." Aurora scrambled up, the knife in her hand. The flowers hissed, retreating. The hum was deafening now, and the sky had turned a sickly purple, as if the world was bleeding. The monolith’s runes flared, and suddenly, she was seeing things: memories not her own. A woman with her blue eyes, her black hair, standing in a room with the Heartstone, a man with a beard and a crown behind her, whispering, "It keeps the door open. Keep it safe. Keep *her* safe." Then, pain—sharp, searing—behind her eyes, and a face: Evan, her ex, his mouth stretched in a grin, his eyes black, "You can’t run from it, Rory. It *knows* you." The pendant slipped from her neck. She lunged for it, but the wetness had reached her knees, and when she touched the grass, it *screamed*. A high, wordless sound that made her ears bleed. The gem was on the ground, glowing so brightly she could see through it, into a realm beyond—pale, flickering figures, shapes that could have been human or not, reaching toward her, their voices a chorus of "Rory," "Laila," "Aurora." "She’s *here*," the voice said. "The key. The stone. The door." Aurora stood, the pendant in her hand, its heat now a burn, searing through her palm. The trees were moving, their trunks bending toward her, branches snapping and reforming into limbs, fingers, faces—Evan’s, her mother’s, a stranger’s, all with the same black eyes. The flowers had become a tide, rolling toward her, thorns sharpening, petals falling away to reveal hollow, empty centers. "Run," the voice said, now in front of her, blocking her path. It was her, but older, her eyes sunken, her hair white, her lips pulled back in a snarl. "Run and never come back. They’ll eat you alive." Aurora didn’t run. She held the pendant higher, and the gem flared, a burst of light that lit the Grove like day. The figures staggered, their faces melting. The hum died. The wetness receded, hissing. The flowers wilted, turning to ash. The monolith cracked. Aurora stepped back, the knife shaking in her hand. The ash swirled upward, forming a shape: a woman, tall, with silver hair and skin like marble, her eyes glowing like embers. She wore a dress that rippled like water, and in her hand, she held a sword, its blade a combination of fire and ice. "The Veil," the woman said, her voice like wind chimes and thunder, "is thin because you’ve been here before, in memory, in shadow. The Heartstone binds you to it, Rory Carter. To *me*." Aurora felt the pendant’s heat ease, a slow, steady pulse now. She remembered the memories the gem had shown her: the woman in the room, the man with the crown, the pain of being torn between two worlds, the decision to flee, to bury herself in delivery work, in a flat above a bar, in silence. *You’re more than you think*, the benefactor had told her. *Don’t hide.* "The Hel portal," she said, her voice steady. "It’s behind you, isn’t it? The monolith was a door, but it’s closing." The woman nodded. "It closes when the river runs dry. When the stone stops breathing." She gestured to the pendant. "You’ve kept it safe. For six months, you’ve carried it like a secret, and in that secrecy, it’s stayed hidden. But now, you’ve come for the truth. And truth cannot be hidden." A sound—distant, but growing—like hooves, like wind through bones. The sky flickered, and Aurora saw it: a river, black and liquid, flowing through the Grove, its waters reflecting the figures from the other realm. The water was rising, creeping up the grass. "The river is Hel’s way to us," the woman said. "It comes when the Veil weakens. And you, Rory, are the reason it’s here." She took a step closer, and Aurora saw the sword’s blade: it contained a face, a version of herself, smiling sadly. "You ran from your past, from your power. But power is not a curse—it’s a door. And you’ve finally decided to open it." The river reached her ankles. Aurora looked down, and in the water, she saw Evan’s face, her mother’s, Eva’s, all laughing at her, then screaming as the water dragged them under. She saw the benefactor, their face blurred, whispering, "It’s time." The scar on her left wrist, once a crescent of white, now glowed faintly, the color of the pendant. "Do you feel it?" the woman said. "The stone in your chest. The light in your veins. You are a bridge, Aurora. Between two worlds. Between life and—" "Stop," Aurora said, but her voice was breathless, awestruck. She closed her eyes, and for a moment, she was no longer in the Grove. She was in her flat, late at night, the pendant in her hand, the note from the benefactor in her pocket. *"You can heal,"* the note had said. *"But to heal, you must remember."* She opened her eyes. The river was at her waist. The figures from Hel were now visible, their faces twisted, reaching for her. The woman with the sword was gone. The monolith was gone. In their place was the stone she’d touched earlier, now cracked, its runes glowing with a dim light. The pendant burned, not in pain, but in recognition. Aurora took a deep breath, let it out, and pulled the knife from her purse. She raised it, and the gem flared, a beam of crimson light that shot into the river. The water boiled, hissing, and the figures screamed, their forms dissolving. The sky cleared, the moon rising full, casting light on the grass, now dry, now withered, now green again. The stone behind her pulsed, and Aurora heard a voice—her own, clear and strong—whispering, *"Remember."* She turned. The Grove was gone. She was in Richmond Park, the standing stones before her, the moon high in the sky. Her watch read 2:45. She’d been there for 18 minutes. The pendant was still warm against her chest, the gem dimmer now, but still glowing. A hand touched her shoulder. She spun. It was a man, tall, with a beard, wearing a black coat, his eyes warm and brown. He held a envelope, sealed. "Eva sent this," he said. "She said you’d need it." Aurora took the envelope. The seal was Eva’s, and on the front, in her handwriting: *For Rory, when she’s ready to stop hiding.* She looked up. The man was gone. The park was empty. The stars were out, bright and clear. In her hand, the pendant pulsed once, twice, then stilled. Aurora walked toward the gate, the envelope tucked into her coat. The river was gone, the Grove forgotten. But the scar on her wrist burned, and the memory of a name—*Malphora*—lingered at the edge of her mind. She smiled, a small, secret smile. It was time to remember. The night wind picked up, carrying the scent of damp earth and something sweeter, cloying, like overripe berries. Somewhere in the distance, a bird sang. Aurora glanced back at the trees, at the stones, at the empty clearing. And she walked on.