The fog didn't lift.
By morning, it had thickened into something unnatural—too dense to be weather, too cold for early autumn. It hugged the ground in twisting streams, blurring the houses, softening the edges of the world.
Inside Noa's room, the mirrors were fogged from the inside.
She didn't remember closing her eyes. But when she opened them, her journal was open on her lap. Her fingers ached, ink smudged across her palm. She flipped through the pages.
Dozens of unfamiliar symbols filled them—concentric circles, jagged runes, and a tree split down the middle, bleeding black.
Her pen was still in her hand.
Downstairs, her mother watched her with tight eyes. "The Hollow always gets strange this time of year," she said as she stirred her tea. "Stay inside when the fog's this thick."
Noa didn't respond.
Her mother hadn't noticed the dirt under her nails. Or the dried blood on her ankle.
At the town library, Celeste wandered alone between dust-covered shelves. The fog outside pressed against the tall, stained windows, dulling the light into a soft gray hush. In the basement, she found a backroom labeled ARCHIVES.
The door was unlocked.
Inside, time had stopped. Yellowed papers lay scattered, forgotten. On a shelf, a box labeled "ASHWOOD TRAGEDY – 1971" caught her eye.
Her fingers shook as she pulled it down.
Inside were brittle newspaper clippings and a cracked photograph: a group of women standing in a clearing, their faces blurred with age. One of them looked exactly like Noa.
She read the headline aloud:
FIVE MISSING AFTER MIDNIGHT GATHERING – LAST SEEN NEAR THE ASHWOOD TREE.
She took the photo and ran.
Astra painted without knowing it.
Her canvas showed the Ashwood Tree again—but this time, it was dying. Its roots curled like claws into the black soil, and from beneath them, blood poured in thin rivulets. A figure watched from between the trunks—its face obscured, its hands too long.
She stepped back, breathless.
"I've never seen that place before," she whispered. "But I know it."
Mavis called the others to her house. Her hands were blistered red. "I didn't burn them," she said. "I touched the drawer the stone was in. That's it."
Riven grabbed her wrist. "We have to get rid of it. Now."
Celeste laid the photograph on the table.
"She looks like Noa."
Noa stared at the image, silent.
"Maybe it's just a coincidence," Riven said. But her voice lacked conviction.
The windowpane near the door creaked.
They turned.
Across the street, just beyond the fence line, a cloaked figure stood perfectly still in the fog. Its outline blurred by the mist—but unmistakably human. Watching.
It didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
Noa stepped toward the glass, but when Mavis pulled the curtain back fully—the street was empty.
That night, the clocks in Thornwick Hollow froze at 3:33 a.m.
The fog whispered.
The seal thinned.