Run: 2026-09-25-01M3CKG4RT1S5TJQVC2WN1ZM42

The path through Richmond Park was supposed to be a shortcut. Rory had taken it a dozen times before, the familiar crunch of gravel under her trainers, the scent of damp earth and old leaves. But tonight, the park felt different. The streetlights had given way to a darkness so thick it seemed to press against her skin, and the usual hum of distant traffic had faded into something quieter, something older. She checked her phone—no signal. Of course. The battery icon flickered at three percent. She cursed under her breath, shoving it back into her pocket. The pendant around her neck, the one she’d found on her doorstep that morning in a plain brown envelope, pulsed faintly against her sternum. Warm, like a living thing. She’d almost forgotten about it until now. The trees here were too still. No rustling, no whisper of wind through the branches. Just silence, heavy and watchful. Rory exhaled, her breath curling in the cold air. She wasn’t supposed to be here this late. Silas had warned her about the park after dark, but she’d laughed it off. Superstition. Just stories. Then she saw the standing stones. Not the usual weathered limestone of the park’s boundaries, but something else—ancient oaks, their bark grooved with symbols that made her eyes ache if she stared too long. They formed a perfect circle, and beyond them, the darkness seemed to part, revealing a clearing bathed in silver moonlight. Wildflowers bloomed there, impossible in the autumn chill, their petals unfurling like an invitation. The Fae Grove. She hadn’t meant to find it. Not really. But Eva had mentioned it once, in hushed tones over too much whiskey, a place where time didn’t behave. A place where things got lost. And Rory, ever the skeptic, had scoffed. Until now. She stepped forward, her pulse quickening. The pendant grew warmer, its crimson glow seeping through the fabric of her jacket. The air inside the grove was thick, sweet with the scent of honeysuckle and something metallic, like old coins. The grass beneath her feet was soft, too soft, as if she were sinking slightly with each step. A twig snapped behind her. Rory spun, her breath catching. Nothing. Just the trees, their gnarled roots twisting like fingers into the earth. She told herself it was just the wind, but there was no wind. The grove was a held breath. She turned back toward the clearing, her skin prickling. The flowers here were wrong. Their colors were too vivid, their shapes too perfect, as if each petal had been painted by a meticulous hand. And the way they moved—no, not moved. Swayed. As if something unseen brushed past them. A whisper slithered through the air, a voice that wasn’t a voice, more like the memory of one. It coiled around her, familiar and yet not, a word she almost understood. Rory’s fingers tightened into fists. She wasn’t the type to spook easily, but this—this was different. This was the creeping certainty that she was being watched. She forced herself forward. The center of the grove held a pool of water, its surface so still it might have been glass. The pendant burned now, its heat searing through her layers. She reached for it, her fingers closing around the gemstone. It throbbed against her palm, as if urging her to look. To look *down*. The water wasn’t water. It was a mirror. And in its depths, she saw herself. But not as she was. This Rory was pale, her lips blue, her bright eyes hollow. She stood in the same grove, but the trees behind her were skeletal, their branches bare and blackened. And she was smiling. A slow, terrible smile, as if she knew a secret Rory didn’t. A cold hand clamped around her wrist. She jerked back, a scream tearing from her throat—but the sound was swallowed by the grove, muffled, as if the air itself refused to carry it. There was no one there. No one *visible*. But the pressure on her wrist remained, fingers—no, *claws*—digging into her skin just above the crescent-shaped scar from her childhood. Then, a sound. A child’s laughter, high and clear, ringing through the clearing. Rory’s blood turned to ice. She knew that laugh. It was hers. From a time she couldn’t remember, a time before Evan, before London, before the scars that weren’t just on her skin. The pendant flared, its light cutting through the darkness like a blade. The grip on her wrist vanished. The laughter stopped. Silence. Then, from the trees, a voice—soft, melodic, and utterly inhuman. *"You shouldn’t be here, little thief."* Rory didn’t wait. She ran. The grove stretched behind her, the exit shifting, the standing stones multiplying like teeth in a monstrous mouth. Her lungs burned, her legs ached, but she didn’t stop. The pendant guided her, its warmth a beacon, its glow casting long, wavering shadows that twisted at the edges of her vision. A shape moved ahead of her. Tall. Too tall. Its limbs were elongated, its silhouette flickering between solid and smoke. Rory skidded to a halt, her heart hammering. The thing had no face. Just a smooth, featureless expanse where eyes and a mouth should have been. Then it *spoke*, and the sound vibrated in her bones. *"You carry something that doesn’t belong to you."* Rory’s hand flew to the pendant. The thing took a step forward, its movements fluid, unnatural. She stumbled back, her heel catching on a root. The ground rushed up to meet her, but before she could fall, something yanked her upright. A branch? No—a hand. Rough, calloused. Human. She gasped, whirling around. A man stood there, his face half-hidden in the shadow of his hood. His grip was iron, his presence solid in a way the grove wasn’t. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. His eyes, dark and knowing, flicked to the pendant, then back to her. And then he *pushed* her. Rory crashed through the standing stones, the world tilting as she tumbled into the real park, the cold night air hitting her like a slap. She rolled onto her back, gasping, her body aching. The grove was gone. The trees were just trees again. The only light came from the distant glow of the city. She scrambled to her feet, her hands shaking. The pendant was cold now, dormant. As if it had never woken at all. But on her wrist, just above the old scar, five thin, red lines welled with blood. And in the distance, from the heart of the park, came the sound of laughter. A child’s. Hers. Rory didn’t look back. She ran.