Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYANGRPP234GKHJDJF920WX

The wrought iron gates of Richmond Park loomed, skeletal in the moonlight. Rory wrestled with the latch, the mechanism stiff with disuse and rust. A gust of wind snaked around her, carrying the scent of damp earth and something else—something floral, overpoweringly sweet, like lilies left too long in a vase. She shivered, pulling her threadbare jacket tighter. It wasn't cold, exactly, more like a profound absence of warmth. She’d told Silas she was working a late shift, delivering noodles to a barrister in Kensington. A lie, but a necessary one. She needed to be here, in the Grove. The anonymous note had been insistent – *“Come to the Grove. Midnight. Bring the Heartstone.”* No signature, just stark black ink on thick, cream-colored paper. Rory clipped the latch, pushing the gates open with a groan of protesting metal. The path ahead vanished quickly, swallowed by the dense wood. Moonlight barely pierced the canopy. The air, heavy and still, pressed against her skin. She fumbled for the Heartstone Pendant beneath her jacket, its familiar warmth a small comfort against her skin. The silver chain felt cold against her fingers. Its crimson gemstone pulsed faintly, a slow, steady beat. Nothing unusual. Not yet, anyway. Rory moved deeper, the soft earth muffling her footsteps. The established path twisted, forking unexpectedly. She'd been here dozens of times, sworn to secrecy by Eva – always during daylight hours, exploring the bizarre botanical anomalies of the Fae-touched grove. It was a curious place during the day, beautiful and unsettling in equal measure. Now, under the oppressive cloak of night, it was something else entirely. A twig snapped. Rory froze. Just a deer, probably. Richmond Park brimmed with them. Still, her hand instinctively tightened around the Heartstone. She scanned the shadows, the moonlight painting the trunks of ancient oaks in distorted patterns. Silence. She resumed her walk, faster than before. The wildflowers, vibrant even in the dark, seemed to lean in towards her, their petals brushing against her legs with an almost sentient touch. It felt…wrong. Wildflowers didn't bloom this late, this vividly, in mid-October. Another snap. Closer this time. Not a deer. Rory stopped, her breath catching in her throat. She strained her ears, listening for any sound beyond the rush of blood in her own ears. The grove was too quiet. Unnaturally so. Even the usual rustle of leaves seemed absent, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath. Then she heard it. A whisper. Faint, indistinct, carried on the wind. It seemed to curl around her, a sibilant sigh that tickled the back of her neck. She couldn’t make out any words. Rory spun around, her gaze sweeping across the grove. Nothing. Just the trees, their branches intertwined like grasping fingers. “Hello?” she called out, her voice barely a tremor. “Is anyone there?” Only silence answered her. A deeper, more profound silence than before. She shouldn’t have spoken. It felt like breaking a rule, awakening something. The Heartstone pulsed faster against her chest, a frantic throb against her ribs. She hurried on, navigating the twisting paths with a growing sense of unease. The air grew colder, the scent of lilies intensifying, thick and cloying. Something moved at the edge of her vision, a flicker of shadow between the trees. She whipped her head around, but there was nothing there. Imagination, she told herself. Just nerves. Then she saw it. A glimpse of white, just beyond a thicket of thorny bushes. A pale, indistinct form, shifting slightly in the darkness. Rory squinted, trying to make it out, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. She took a tentative step forward, pushing aside a branch. Another step. The ground beneath her feet shifted. Not a settling of the earth, but a deliberate movement. Something was down there, concealed beneath the leaves. Rory recoiled, stumbling backward. A child’s giggle echoed through the grove, high-pitched and unsettling. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Rory's blood turned to ice. She knew this place, knew its quirks, its anomaly. It did not belong for children to reside in. “Who’s there?” she demanded, her voice shaking despite her best efforts. The giggle came again, closer this time. Followed by a soft, singsong voice. “Lost, little Rory?” The voice was incongruous – sweet and childish, yet laced with a chilling undercurrent. She didn’t turn around, she didn’t dare. She could feel eyes on her. The wrongness in the air thickened and solidified. “I’m not lost,” she replied, her voice barely audible. “I’m looking for someone.” “Everyone comes looking for someone,” the voice replied, still sing-song and far too close. “But not everyone finds what they're looking for.” Rory felt a wave of dizziness wash over her. The Heartstone blazed with heat against her skin, its crimson glow illuminating the area around her in an eerie light. A figure emerged from the shadows. Small, slight, almost childlike. It wore a long, white dress, the fabric shimmering in the moonlight. Its face was obscured by a tangle of dark hair. “You brought the pretty stone,” the figure said, extending a small, pale hand. “Give it to me.” Rory shook her head, taking a step back. “Who are you?” The figure tilted its head, the movement unnervingly fluid. A single, long finger emerged from the hair, pointing directly at Rory. “Doesn’t matter who I am,” it said, its voice dropping to a menacing whisper. “What matters is what you have.” Rory clutched the Heartstone tighter. It was warm, almost burning now. She could feel its energy pulsing through her veins, a desperate surge of power. “I won’t give it to you,” she said, finding a new surge of steel in her voice. The figure’s head snapped up, its obscured face seeming to contort into a grotesque parody of a smile. The air around it shimmered, distorting the light. “You don’t understand,” it whispered. “It belongs to me.” Another giggle. This time, it was closer than ever, right behind her. Rory whirled around, heart hammering against her ribs. Nothing. But the scent of lilies was overpowering now, suffocating, filling her lungs with its sickly sweetness. “It’s time to play,” the figure said, its voice echoing through the grove. “And you’re it.”