The morning sun crept through the thin curtains, painting Sarah's room in pale light. She stretched lazily, her body still heavy with dreams. The shower called to her, a chance to shake away the restless sleep that clung to her like cobwebs.
Warm water ran down her skin, soothing at first—until she froze.
Her eyes narrowed at her arm.
There it was.
A dark, jagged mark, etched deep into her skin as if it had been burned there in the night. It wasn't ink. It wasn't a bruise. It was something far older, far stranger. A crooked cross twisted inside a circle, with lines branching out like veins.
Her breath hitched. She rubbed at it furiously, hoping it would fade. But the mark only seemed to grow clearer under her frantic touch.
"What… is this?" she whispered.
By the time she dressed, pulling her sleeve low over her arm, her heart was hammering so loudly it drowned out her thoughts.
Downstairs, she cooked something small for herself. The quiet of the house pressed against her ears, suffocating. She carried her plate back upstairs and stopped outside her mother's room.
The tray of food she had left the night before was still there, untouched. The rice had already gone bad, sour and faintly rotting. Sarah's chest tightened as she bent down, picked it up, and carried it back to the kitchen.
She knocked on her mother's door, soft at first, then harder.
"Mom? Please… can you just come out? Just once. I need to talk to you. I have so much to tell you. Please…"
But the only answer was silence.
Always the silence.
Tears blurred her eyes as she pressed her forehead against the door. "Please… just come out," she whispered. But she didn't show the mark. She couldn't.
When she finally walked to school, her steps were heavy. Her emotions dragged at her like weights, her thoughts spiraling. The mark. Her mom. The scarecrow. All of it tangled together in her chest until she couldn't breathe.
And still, the pull was there—an aching urge she couldn't explain. She needed to talk to the scarecrow. She didn't know why, but she just did.
At school, she tugged her sleeve down as far as it would go, trying her best to hide it. But during art class, her sleeve rolled up without her noticing.
Adrian saw it.
He didn't say anything, not at first. He only looked at her with quiet curiosity and a small, unreadable smile.
Later, in the cafeteria, he finally spoke. "You got a new tattoo. It's cute."
Sarah's head snapped toward him, her cheeks burning. "It's none of your business!" she snapped, dragging her sleeve down and turning away sharply.
Adrian only raised his hands as if surrendering, stepping back. But his eyes lingered on her—longer than she wanted. Longer than she could stand.
By the time she reached the scarecrow that evening, her chest was tight again. She stood before it, her voice trembling as the words slipped out.
"I don't know what's happening to me," she whispered, pressing her palm against the mark beneath her sleeve. "I woke up and this was just… here. Isn't that weird? A tattoo I never asked for? It doesn't even feel like mine…"
Her head bowed, words spilling out like secrets she couldn't share with anyone else.
And that's when it happened.
Though she didn't see it, the scarecrow's stitched mouth curled upward, stretching into something that almost resembled a smile. Its button eyes shimmered faintly, a cold, unnatural glow pulsing within them—alive, if only for a breath.
When Sarah finally looked up, the scarecrow was still. Lifeless.
Her chest tightened, a shiver racing down her spine. She took a step back, clutching her sleeve, she didn't know why but told the Scarecrow she needed to go she turned away heading inside
The scarecrow was smiling behind her but wider this time