Tasha hadn't slept.
Not really.
Every time she closed her eyes, the same place pulled her back.
The forest.
The clearing.
The jar.
Waiting.
But this time...
It wasn't just a dream.
She could feel it.
In her skin.
In her bones.
The thread around her wrist had changed.
It was no longer loose.
No longer something she could ignore.
It had tightened,wrapping twice now, pressing into her skin like it belonged there.
Like it was part of her.
Tasha sat at the edge of her bed, staring at it.
"Okay," she whispered. "This is not normal."
The thread pulsed.
Once.
Twice.
Like a heartbeat.
Her breath hitched.
And then...
"Bring it."
She froze.
That hadn't come from her head.
It hadn't come from a dream.
It had come from behind her.
Tasha turned slowly.
Nothing.
Her room was empty.
Still.
But the air had changed.
Thicker.
Heavier.
And then the scent hit her.
Burnt cedar.
Her pulse spiked.
"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "No, no,this isn't happening."
The thread tightened.
Sharp.
Demanding.
And suddenly...
She knew something.
Not learned.
Not remembered.
Known.
The path.
The exact turns.
The way the trees would open.
Her body reacted before her mind could catch up.
She stood.
Walked.
Opened the door.
Barefoot, she stepped into the night.
The city faded behind her as if it had never mattered.
Step by step, the world shifted.
Concrete to dirt.
Noise to silence.
Light to shadow.
Until...
She reached it.
The forest.
Her breath slowed.
Not from calm.
From recognition.
"I've been here," she whispered.
And the forest seemed to agree.
The clearing waited exactly as she had seen it.
The white ash circle.
The red strings stretched across the ground like veins.
And at the center...
The jar.
Small.
Cracked.
Humming.
Tasha stepped forward slowly, her pulse syncing with that low vibration.
"You came."
The voice cut through the silence.
She turned sharply.
A figure stood at the edge of the clearing.
Cloaked.
Still.
Watching.
Her throat went dry. "Who are you?"
The figure didn't move.
Didn't step closer.
Didn't retreat.
"I was here before you," he said.
His voice was low.
Distorted.
Like it carried more than one layer.
Tasha swallowed. "You've been calling me."
A pause.
Then...
"No," he said.
"I've been waiting."
"For what?"
The figure tilted his head slightly.
"For you to remember why you came back."
The words hit something deep.
Unsettling.
Dangerous.
"I don't remember anything," she said, her voice tightening.
"You do," he replied calmly. "You just don't like what it makes you."
Her hand clenched.
The thread bit into her skin.
She looked down at it—angry now, defiant.
"I'm not part of this," she said.
"You are the center of it."
Silence.
Then...
The jar pulsed.
Stronger.
Louder.
Calling.
Tasha stepped toward it.
One step.
Then another.
The figure didn't stop her.
Didn't move.
Just watched.
Waiting.
And when her fingers finally touched the surface...
The world shifted.