The rain fell like a thousand whispered curses, seeping into the bones of the village. Mud swallowed footsteps and muffled voices. At the edge of the forest, where the wind stuttered through the trees like a man trying to remember his name, the old house sagged further into the earth.
It was during that storm—violent and sudden—that the ground behind the protagonist's childhood home split open.
Not wide, not deep. Just enough to reveal a shape.
Something not quite stone… not quite wood. Wrapped in old burlap and thick, rusted wire. The roots of the nearby tree clutched it like fingers resisting release.
The protagonist stared at it for a long time from the back door, uncertain whether the thunder was in the sky or in their chest.
When they finally stepped outside, the wind died.
Each step brought them closer to whatever was buried there—and closer to a memory they didn't know they had: a birthday, a song, a hand pushing soil over something small, and a promise whispered through tears.
They reached for the bundle.
And then—faint but distinct—came a giggle. A child's giggle. From beneath the ground.