Run: 2026-03-18-01KM08DXBP7744168J6MHVW50J

The standing stones rose from the earth like bent fingers, their grey surfaces slick with something that wasn’t water. Rory kept her hand on the pendant beneath her jacket, feeling the faintest thrum against her palm. The silver chain burned cold where it touched her collarbone. She hadn’t asked to come here. But the pull had been irresistible—warm, insistent, like a thread running from her ribs to somewhere beyond the stones. It was past midnight when she left the flat above Silas’ bar. Eva had sent her a text—*Rory need to see you. It’s urgent*—but when Rory called back, the line went dead mid-ring. Dead air and Eva’s message deleted. The pendant had glowed then, deep crimson pulsing against her sternum. So she caught the last night bus to Richmond, then walked the empty park paths with her collar turned up against the damp October air. The path should have been familiar—Richmond Park at night, open grass and skeletal trees. But the standing stones weren’t part of the landscape in reality. No tourist photos showed them. No park wardens mentioned them. Eva had whispered about a place where the air tasted like copper, where time didn’t pass the way it should, when they were sixteen and drunk on cheap cider in a flat overlooking the Taff. *It’s somewhere in the park*, Eva had said, *but you’ll know when you’re there.* Rory knew now. The boundary wasn’t a door so much as a shift—a breath inward, a cold hand pressing between her shoulder blades. One step, and the quiet of London night gave way to something thick and breathing. The trees here didn’t sway with the wind; they shivered, every leaf trembling at once before falling still. The wildflowers bloomed in impossible colors—pinks so vivid they hurt the eyes, purples that looked like bruises, yellows like rusted metal. Their perfume filled the air, cloying and wrong, like rotting fruit left too long in the sun. She unzipped her jacket enough to let the pendant breathe. The air around her torso warmed immediately, the gemstone’s pulse quickening to a slow, regular beat. *There*, the absence told her. A presence not quite there. A door not quite closed. “Hello?” Her voice sounded too soft, swallowed by the undergrowth. No answer came except the distant chime of a church bell—but not any church she knew. The hour was wrong. Or the place was. She stepped further in, conscious of how the ground beneath her boots no longer felt like earth. It had give, like walking on muscle. The standing stones loomed behind her, but when she turned to look, they seemed closer than they should be. Taller. Their surfaces pulsed with a faint iridescence, like oil on water. A laugh. High, childlike, coming from the direction she’d just left. Rory spun, jacket zipper rasping. The sound stopped. Silence pressed back at her, so thick it felt like breathing water. “Eva?” No use pretending this was normal. No use pretending she wasn’t alone. The pendant’s glow intensified, painting her fingers red in the dark. Something moved among the trees. Not walking. *Sliding.* Between trunks too wide, shadow pooled deeper than it should, shifting when nothing touched it. She held her breath. A voice—clear, almost in her ear—spoke a phrase in Welsh that made her skin crawl. The words weren’t English. They weren’t proper Welsh. They were made of syllables that bent the mouth trying to form them. *Ti a fi yn y glyn...* Not Welsh. Something older. Something that shouldn’t remember language at all. Her hands shook. She clenched them into fists, nails biting into palms. The pendant burned now, throbbing against her skin. She could feel it pulling her forward, toward the heart of the grove where the standing stones stood closest, where the air smelled like rust and wet wool. “Who’s there?” Her voice cracked. No answer. But the shadows between the stones rippled, like the world behind them breathed. She crept forward, boots sinking slightly with each step. The wildflowers here weren’t just blooming—they were *weeping.* Tiny droplets of clear fluid beaded at their petal edges, falling without wind to catch them. She reached down to touch one. Cold. Sticky. Smelled like spoiled milk. Her left wrist itched. The crescent scar there—a childhood accident with a broken beer bottle—stung as if freshly cut. She flexed her fingers. The skin beneath her fingers dimpled on its own, like unseen lips pressing against her veins from the inside. “Bloody hell.” She jerked her hand back. A twig snapped. Not underfoot. Behind. Rory’s pulse hammered in her throat. She turned slowly. Nothing there. Just the standing stones and the pulsing wildflowers and the weight of the pendant dragging her forward. She took a step. Another laugh. Closer this time. Not human sound. *Almost* human. Like a child learning to mimic but never getting the mouth right. She broke into a run without meaning to, boots slipping on the unnatural ground. The pendant’s glow cast pulsing red light ahead, showing only trees and more trees and the standing stones always directly in front of her no matter how she angled her path. She wasn’t getting closer to any exit. Breath came in sharp gasps. Her scar ached as if the wound had reopened. She curled her fingers into her palm again, pressing hard, grounding herself. “Right,” she muttered. “Think. This is a Fae pocket. Time’s messed up here. Doesn’t mean anything unless I let it.” She forced herself to stop running. Stood still. Listened. Footsteps. Light. Almost like dancing. Coming from all sides. She squeezed her eyes shut. Counted her breaths. In for four. Hold for seven. Out for eight. When she opened them, the standing stones were closer. Much closer. A child stood between them. Tall as Rory’s waist. Thin. Pale. Hair long and dark, tangled with twigs. Eyes black as polished river stones. It wore a dress made of flower petals and old newspaper, bright colors peeling off in the damp air. It smiled. Not a nice smile. A smile that showed too many teeth. A smile that knew how long she’d been looking for this place. “Rory,” it said. Her name in its mouth sounded like a death sentence spoken backwards. The pendant burned white-hot against her chest. The child’s smile widened. Its fingers—too long, too jointed—twitched at its sides. Behind her, the undergrowth shifted. Something rose from the ground. Tall. Too tall. Its limbs bent like a broken marionette’s. She didn’t wait to see what it was. Rory turned and ran.