Elsbeth.
It began with silence.
Not peaceful. Not serene.
This silence had weight. Density. It wasn't the absence of sound—it was the presence of something else. Something vast and still and waiting. It pressed against my skin like water, thick and suffocating, like the world had been wrapped in velvet and drowned beneath it.
I stood barefoot in a forest made of bone. The skin on my feet was torn, bleeding and not healing. My legs were marred with scars, scratches trailing upwards.
The trees were brittle, bleached white as old teeth. Their branches curled like claws overhead, scraping against one another in stiff groans. A mist coiled low to the ground, thick and sentient, as if it had grown tired of lying still and had begun to breathe. The air was sharp. Stale. Like the hush before a scream.
I didn't remember walking here. Or sleeping. Or even dreaming.
But I knew, instinctively, I was not alone.
The eyes came first.
Not from in front. Not from behind. From everywhere.
