The forest is still. Too still. Each step you take feels deliberate, like you're walking on the edge of something you can't see. The air presses in on you, thick with silence. You stop for a moment, listening, but there's nothing. Only the faint rustle of leaves far above you.

The path narrows, winding deeper into the trees. The shadows stretch long, the moonlight just barely reaching the ground. The trees seem taller here, their branches knitting together like a canopy. It feels more like a tunnel than a forest.

There’s a sound now. Soft, like a hum, but not quite. You can’t place it. It’s distant, somewhere behind you. You tell yourself it’s the wind, but it doesn’t sound like wind. It feels like it’s closer than it should be.

You keep walking.

Ahead, the path splits in two. The left disappears into the dark, the right barely visible in the dim light. You hesitate, your breath quickening. There's no clear sign of where to go. Both paths feel wrong. The air here is colder, biting at your skin.

You choose the right.

The hum fades, but it’s still there, just at the edge of your hearing. The trees open up suddenly, and you find yourself in a small clearing. Moonlight spills down, washing the ground in pale light. The stillness here is different—calm, almost welcoming.

Your legs feel heavy, too heavy. You lower yourself to the ground, lying back on the cool earth. The hum fades completely as your eyes close. The weight of the night pulls you into sleep before you can think about why you ran.