The path the frightened figure had fled was narrow, almost reluctant to exist. Branches leaned inward, brushing Jake's shoulders as if trying to slow him, or warn him, or test his resolve. The child's ribbon pulsed faintly on his wrist—uneven, flickering, but present. It was the only thing guiding him now.
Jake moved carefully, listening for the tapping he'd heard before. But the forest had gone silent again, swallowing every sound. Even his footsteps felt muted, as if the ground didn't want to carry the noise.
He pressed on.
The deeper he went, the more the air changed. It grew warmer, thicker, carrying a faint scent he couldn't place—something like sap mixed with smoke. The trees here were older, their trunks twisted into shapes that looked almost like faces. Some watched him with hollow knots for eyes. Others leaned away as if recoiling.
Jake tried not to look too closely.
The ribbon pulsed again—two quick beats, then a long pause. Not a message. Not a gesture. More like a heartbeat struggling to stay steady.
He whispered, "I'm coming. Just hold on."
The forest didn't answer, but the ribbon warmed slightly against his skin.
He followed the path until it opened into a clearing unlike any he had seen before. The ground was bare—no moss, no leaves, just smooth, pale soil that looked almost polished. At the centre stood a structure made of interwoven branches, shaped like a dome. It pulsed faintly with the same sickly light he had seen in the cracked tree.
Jake's breath caught.
Something was inside.
He stepped forward slowly, each movement deliberate. The air around the structure felt charged, humming with a low vibration that made his teeth ache. The branches shifted slightly as he approached, tightening, then loosening, as if breathing.
Jake pressed his palm to the weave. It wasn't the cold of ice; it was the cold of a basement—a damp, lightless chill that seemed to suck the warmth directly out of his marrow.
Cold.
Not natural cold—this was the cold of something drained, something emptied.
He whispered, "Child? Are you in there?"
No answer.
But the ribbon on his wrist pulsed sharply—once, twice, then a trembling third time.
Jake's heart lurched. She was close. She had to be.
He circled the structure, searching for an opening. The branches were woven too tightly to see through, but he could feel movement inside—small, faint, like someone shifting in their sleep.
Or struggling.
He reached the back of the dome and found a narrow gap, just wide enough for his hand. He hesitated, then slid his fingers inside.
The air within was warm—too warm. And thick, like breathing through cloth. He felt something brush against his fingertips. Soft. Small.
A hand.
Jake's breath broke. "I'm here," he whispered. "I'm right here."
The hand twitched weakly, then slipped away.
Jake pressed his forehead against the branches, fighting the rising panic. "Hold on. I'll get you out."
He pulled at the branches, but they didn't budge. The branches groaned under his grip, a sound like grinding teeth. As he pulled, they didn't just resist; they pulsed and thickened, the gaps closing like a healing wound. It wasn't wood he was fighting; it was a reflex.
He stepped back, chest heaving. The forest watched him silently, offering no guidance.
He closed his eyes, trying to steady himself. The child had taught him so much—how to listen, how to feel the land, how to move with intention. But she had never taught him how to break something that wasn't meant to be broken.
He pressed his palm to the ground.
Nothing.
He pressed it harder, digging his fingers into the soil.
Still nothing.
He whispered, "Please. Help me."
The ground remained silent.
But the ribbon on his wrist pulsed again, weak but insistent. Jake lifted his wrist, staring at the threads. The ribbon wasn't just a symbol. It was a connection. A thread between him and the child.
A thread that could guide.
He pressed the ribbon gently against the structure.
The branches shivered.
Jake's eyes widened. He pressed harder, letting the ribbon's faint pulse sync with the structure's broken rhythm. Slowly, painfully, the branches loosened—just enough for him to slip his hand inside again.
He reached blindly, fingers brushing against warm skin. He grasped the small hand and held it tightly.
"I've got you," he whispered. "I'm not letting go."
The hand squeezed back—weak, trembling, but real.
Jake pulled gently, trying to guide her toward the gap. The branches resisted, tightening again. The child's hand slipped from his grip.
"No—no, stay with me," Jake pleaded, reaching deeper.
The structure pulsed violently, as if rejecting him.
Jake stumbled back, breath shaking. The ribbon on his wrist flickered wildly, threads dimming.
He realised something then—something cold and sharp.
The structure wasn't trapping her.
It was holding her together.
Protecting her from something worse.
Jake sank to his knees, hands trembling. "What happened to you?" he whispered.
The forest didn't answer.
But from inside the structure came a faint sound.
Not tapping.
Not humming.
A small, broken breath.
Jake pressed his palm to the branches, tears stinging his eyes.
"I'm not leaving," he whispered. "Not this time."
The ribbon pulsed once weakly, but steadily.
A promise.
A plea.
A thread that had not yet broken.