The silence was the worst part.
It wasn’t just the absence of sound; it was an active, hungry quiet that seemed to swallow the wind, the rustle of the leaves, and the frantic thumping of my own heart. A moment ago, the figure had been standing there—solid, real, terrifying. Now, there was nothing.
The woods were empty. I paced the small radius where the figure had stood, scanning for scuffed dirt, crushed moss, a snapped twig—anything to prove that I hadn't lost my mind.
Nothing. Not a single footprint in the soft loam. Not a blade of grass bent out of place. The woods looked untouched.
As though nothing had ever stood there.
As though the mountain had erased the evidence before we could breathe.
That, somehow, was worse. It meant the mountain wasn't just hiding Damien; it was mockin
