Run: 2026-07-09-01KX40WNWRQ015HMN4N247DFYT

Aurora Carter crossed beneath the ancient oaks at 11:47 p.m., carrying a torch in one hand and the Heartstone pendant in the other. The stones stood where Richmond Park ended, black slabs hunched among the trees. No path led between them. She had marked the route on her phone before leaving the flat, but the map had folded into a white blur five minutes after she entered the park. The signal vanished. The battery dropped from sixty-two per cent to nine. She stopped beneath the gap between two stones. The air changed. Behind her, London pressed against the night: traffic muttering beyond the park, a siren fading towards the river, the distant pulse of a late train. Ahead, the grove opened beneath a pale wash of moonlight. No traffic reached it. No wind stirred the branches. Wildflowers crowded the clearing, their petals open despite the hour. Bluebells, foxgloves, pale gold flowers Rory could not name. They filled every hollow in the grass and brushed the stones with small, soft heads. She lowered the torch. The beam ended at the boundary. It lit the nearest flowers, then thinned into grey before it reached the centre of the grove. Rory touched the pendant. The silver chain had tightened against her throat during the walk. The thumbnail-sized crimson stone rested cold beneath her collarbone. “Come on,” she whispered. “You dragged me here. Do something useful.” The Heartstone warmed against her skin. A pulse moved through it. Once. Twice. Rory looked towards the far edge of the clearing. Nothing stood there. Only an oak with a split trunk, its branches reaching over the flowers. The pendant pulsed again. She stepped between the stones. The park vanished. Not faded. Vanished. The city noise fell away so completely that Rory heard the click of her torch button, the fabric of her coat shifting across her shoulder, the small scrape of grit beneath her boot. The night closed around those sounds and held them. She turned. The standing stones remained behind her, but the gap showed no park beyond it. A wall of blackness filled the opening. It had no depth. No texture. Her torch beam struck it and disappeared. Rory watched it for three seconds. Then she faced the grove. She had come for the portal. Two nights earlier, the pendant had begun to pulse in the restaurant’s back room. Yu-Fei had noticed it first, catching Rory by the wrist as she reached for a crate of wine. “Where did you get that?” Rory had kept her hand closed around the stone. “Gift.” “From whom?” “Someone with poor taste in jewellery.” Yu-Fei had looked past her, towards the kitchen wall. The pendant had gone hot enough to burn. “Take it to Richmond,” she had said. “Find the standing stones. If it wakes there, don’t touch the opening.” Rory had laughed then. Yu-Fei had not. Now the pendant warmed against her chest, and the grove waited. She crossed the clearing. The flowers gave way beneath her boots with a damp whisper. Their stems bent, but none snapped. When she lifted her foot, they rose again. Rory glanced down. A thin trail ran behind her through the flowers. Not footprints. The crushed stems had parted in narrow lines, as if something had dragged a finger through them. She moved faster. The split oak stood at the edge of the clearing. Its bark had peeled away from the trunk in long strips. Beneath it, the exposed wood looked white and smooth, like bone. A dark hollow opened at its base. The Heartstone pulsed hard enough to jerk the chain. Rory crouched. The hollow held no roots, no soil. Darkness filled it, dense and glossy. A faint red light beat beneath the black surface. She took out her phone and raised it towards the opening. The screen showed a photograph instead of the camera view. Her own face stared back. The image had been taken from close range. Her hair hung across one eye. Her lips parted. Behind her, the grove stretched in moonlit silence. Rory turned. The grove remained empty. The phone chimed. She looked down. A new photograph appeared. This one showed the back of her head. The camera angle came from behind her left shoulder. Rory locked the screen and slid the phone into her pocket. Her fingers shook once. She clenched them until the tremor stopped. A sound travelled through the trees. Three knocks. Not on wood. Something hollow. Knock. Knock. Knock. The noise came from the standing stones. Rory stood and faced the clearing. The gap between the stones still opened onto darkness. A pale shape had appeared within it. She raised the torch. The light found a hand. It rested against the invisible wall, palm facing her. Long fingers. Grey skin. Nails dark and flat. Rory did not move. The hand withdrew. The darkness remained. She stepped backwards. Her heel struck the oak’s root. The hollow breathed. A cold draught slipped over her boot and climbed her leg. The flowers around the tree folded towards the opening. Petals turned black at their edges. Rory reached for the pendant. The stone burned. She tore the chain over her head and held it away from her body. The crimson surface had brightened, its inner glow spreading like blood through ice. A voice spoke from the hollow. “Laila.” Rory froze. Only one person called her that. Her mother had used it when Rory woke from nightmares as a child, sitting on the edge of the bed with a cup of milk and one hand pressed to Rory’s hair. The voice came again. “Laila, come here.” It sounded like Jennifer Carter. The same Welsh lilt. The same soft drag over the second syllable. Rory’s grip tightened around the chain. “Nan never called you Laila.” The voice fell silent. A flower opened beside her boot. Its petals unfolded one by one, revealing a tiny black mouth at the centre. Rory backed away from the oak. “Who are you?” The grove offered no answer. Then something shifted beyond the split trunk. Rory saw it in the corner of her eye: a narrow figure slipping between the trees. She turned towards it, but the branches stood still. Moonlight spilled across empty grass. She faced the oak again. The hollow had changed. It no longer sat at ground level. The opening rose from the roots to Rory’s waist, stretched tall and narrow, its edges pulled into the shape of a doorway. The blackness inside reflected her torch. It reflected the grove. It did not reflect Rory. A second sound came from behind her. A footstep. Rory stopped breathing. Another followed, closer. The flowers whispered as something passed through them. Stems bent in a line from the standing stones towards the oak. She looked over her shoulder. Nothing. The pendant tugged in her hand, dragging towards the doorway. “No,” Rory said. The chain pulled harder. She wrapped it around her wrist. The small crescent scar there caught against the silver. Something touched the back of her coat. Rory spun. The torch beam swept across the clearing. White flowers. Black branches. Ancient stones. No one. Her breath clouded before her face. The cold had spread through the grove. It pressed against her ears, muffling the world. She heard a faint scuff behind her, then a soft exhalation close to her neck. She turned again. A face stood inches away. Rory stumbled back with a cry. The torch struck the ground and rolled through the flowers. Its beam spun across the clearing, cutting the trees into brief fragments. The face had vanished. Her shoulder hit the oak. The bark scraped through her coat. She clutched the pendant against her chest and forced air into her lungs. “Rory.” Her own voice came from the darkness. Not an echo. A separate voice. It spoke from behind the oak. “Rory, look at me.” She snatched up the torch. The doorway waited in the split trunk. A figure stood inside it now. The shape had her height. Her coat. Her straight black hair. Its face remained hidden in shadow. Rory raised the torch. The figure stepped closer to the threshold. Its hair parted. Her own bright blue eyes caught the beam. The thing smiled with Rory’s mouth. “Open the door.”