The forest didn't care about me. Not at first.
I sat where I had hidden, shaking, trying to force my lungs to obey, trying to convince myself I was still alive. My hands were dirt-streaked, my clothes torn, my mind spinning. The first monster had passed, but the echo of it lingered. Every shadow seemed thicker, every sound sharper.
I didn't move far that day. Just a few steps from where I had appeared, testing the ash beneath my sandals, feeling the strange weight of the air. Being alive meant I had to survive. That was all I could focus on.
Then time passed.
Months, maybe years—I had no way to count. This place didn't follow the rules of clocks or calendars. Days and nights blurred. Hunger was constant, but I adapted. I remembered to drink when I could, to taste roots, to chew on leaves that didn't immediately try to kill me. My hands grew calloused. My knees scraped and healed again, over and over, like the forest itself was testing my persistence.
I learned to move without being seen. Not consciously. My body did it. Space itself seemed to fold me into the world, dulling my presence, muting the sound of my breathing. I didn't question it. In a place like this, asking why was a waste of energy. Survival was instinct, and instinct was enough.
I didn't wander much. Not in the sense of exploration. I measured my range in steps, in shallow circles, testing which areas were safe, which were silent, which could hold me without drawing attention. Most things didn't see me. I didn't see most things. And that was how I survived.
Sometimes, I thought of the city I had left behind. The streets I had walked, the smells of fresh bread and smoke, the voices I had recognized since childhood. The Hole had swallowed everything—family, friends, buildings—and left me. I remembered being torn apart in that void and stitched back together by something I didn't understand. That memory was still clear too.
Some days were monotonous. I traced the slow drip of condensation from the twisted trees into my hands, counting droplets for no reason. I picked through ash for roots, tested which leaves were bitter but edible, which soil held moisture, which shadows were safe to rest in. Every tiny action was a calculation of life versus death.
Other days, this hell reminded me it had a mind of its own. A branch snapped when nothing was there. A shadow flickered just outside my vision. The mist thickened suddenly, cold and heavy, pressing against my skin. The air seemed to whisper. I never understood the whispers. I never tried. I just moved faster, smaller, quieter.
I had countless brushes with death, though I never kept track. Sharp claws that clicked too close behind me, unseen mouths snapping in the dark, air that shifted like it wanted to crush me—all of it became routine. I couldn't name the things I escaped. I didn't try. Every narrow escape was a quiet reminder: this place didn't forgive mistakes.
Time blurred further. Weeks, months, maybe years. I survived because I learned the rhythm: eat, rest, observe, avoid. Repeat. And repeat. And repeat again.
I stopped wondering if I would ever leave. This world didn't belong to me. I belonged to it. Shadows, ash, mist, silence—that was my world now.
Then, one day, the impossible appeared again.
The Hole.
But unlike the last one, it wasn't roaring. It didn't rip the air. It didn't pull the sky or tear the earth. It just… existed. A perfect circle etched into the ash, subtle, unnerving, like it had been waiting for me all this time.
I froze. Every instinct screamed to run. Every nerve in my body screamed to flee. My gut twisted. My fingers itched to turn and run. But I had nowhere else to go. Nothing left to do but take the risk.
The surface rippled faintly as I stared at it. Silent. Still. Terrible in its promise.
I took a step closer. Then another. My heart hammered. My chest burned. The faint hum in my bones whispered to me, urging me forward.
I didn't know what awaited me on the other side. I didn't know if I'd return to my world, or to another world entirely, or if I'd be torn apart like before.
But everything I had survived—the months, the years, the silence, the hunger, the fear—led to this.
I swallowed the hesitation.
And dived in.