…because it was them.
Not wholly. Not in form. But in the places where memory rots into guilt, and love twists into sacrifice. In the seams of their decisions—cracked wide open and stitched shut with denial—it had rooted itself, quiet and waiting. Watching.
Lucas collapsed against the nearest tree, his breath catching like it was snagged on thorns. Behind his ribs, the heat faded—but not entirely. It dimmed, like a lantern shielded by trembling hands. He could still feel it. Watching.
Inside.
He pressed a hand to the bark. It pulsed beneath his fingers. Once. Twice. A third time—and on the fourth, a whisper rose from the bark, curling around the back of his neck like a lover's hand.
"You wore my name."
Lucas flinched.
"I never wanted—"
"You hid me."
"I protected you!"
A pause.
Then, in a voice so close it shook the marrow in his bones:
"No. You forgot me."
Charlotte stood in the clearing again. Alone. Almost.
The children were gone.
