MOONBORN

The forest had always been there. It stood behind our house like a wall no one had bothered to build properly—rows of dark trees stretching toward the hills, their branches tangled together until the daylight disappeared beneath them. My mother hated it. I had never understood why. Whenever I was younger, she would find an excuse to keep me away from the tree line. Don’t go too far. Come inside before dark. Stay where I can see you. She never explained any of it. She just watched the forest whenever she thought I wasn’t looking. Tonight, I was looking. I stood at the kitchen window with my arms folded, staring through the glass at the trees. Rain had passed through Blackridge an hour earlier, leaving the ground black and wet. Water clung to the leaves, catching the weak porch light whenever the wind moved them. Everything looked ordinary. That was what bothered me. For the last eighteen years, my mother’s explanation for everything had been the same. My father was gone. He had left. He wasn’t coming back. Daniel Rivers had disappeared before I was old enough to remember his face, and apparently that was supposed to be enough. A person could disappear. A person could leave. But there were questions my mother never answered. Why had she refused to talk about him? Why had she kept the few photographs of him locked away? And why, whenever I asked what happened the night he disappeared, did she look frightened before telling me there was nothing to remember? I had stopped asking years ago. At least, I had pretended to. A sound came from outside. Scratch. I lifted my head. Another. Scratch. Not a branch. Too deliberate. I moved closer to the window. The kitchen behind me was warm and bright, but the glass felt cold beneath my fingertips. I couldn’t see anything through the darkness. “Kaia.” My mother’s voice made me turn. She stood in the doorway, drying her hands on a towel. “What?” Her eyes went immediately to the window. Then to me. “Come away from there.” Something about the way she said it made my stomach tighten. “Why?” “Just come away.” I didn’t move. Her expression hardened. “Kaia.” “I’m not a child.” “I know.” “Then stop talking to me like one.” For a moment, neither of us spoke. Rainwater slipped from the roof outside. My mother lowered the towel. “You don’t need to be out there.” “I wasn’t planning to go anywhere.” “Good.” She walked past me and pulled the curtain across the window. The movement was quick. Almost nervous. I stared at her. “What?” “Nothing.” “Mom.” She avoided my eyes. That was when I knew it wasn’t nothing. I looked back toward the curtain. “Did you hear that?” “Hear what?” “The scratching.” Her fingers tightened around the towel. Only for a second. Then she said, “Probably a branch.” “There aren’t any branches that reach the house.” She looked at me. I waited. She said nothing. That silence was worse than an answer. I went upstairs a few minutes later. My mother didn’t stop me. My room was exactly as I had left it—books on the desk, clothes on the chair, my phone charging beside the bed. I changed into dry clothes and tried to convince myself that I was being ridiculous. A branch. An animal. Anything. But when I turned off the light, I heard it again. Scratch. I froze. This time it came from my bedroom window. I didn’t breathe. Scratch. I crossed the room slowly and pulled the curtain aside. Nothing. Just darkness. I opened the window. Cold air rushed inside. Below me, the ground was slick with rain. And there, in the soft earth beneath the window, was a line of marks. Four deep scratches. Parallel. Fresh. I stared at them. They weren’t made by a branch. They weren’t made by a small animal either. They were too long. Too deep. I grabbed my phone and took a picture. Then another. I zoomed in. The marks disappeared beneath the shadow of the house. Something had dragged its claws through the mud and walked away toward the forest. I should have closed the window. Instead, I found myself staring at the trail. For the first time in eighteen years, I wondered something I had never allowed myself to wonder before. What if my mother had been lying about the night my father disappeared? I took one more photograph. Then I closed the window. But I didn’t delete the pictures. I had a feeling I was going to need them. I barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the four marks beneath my window. By morning, I had almost convinced myself they weren’t important. Almost. I sat on the edge of my bed with my phone in my hand, staring at the photographs I’d taken the night before. The first picture was too dark. The second showed the marks clearly. The third caught something I hadn’t noticed when I’d taken it. A faint line continued beyond the four scratches. Not toward the forest. Toward the side of the house. I zoomed in. There. Another mark. Then another. A trail. I stood. My mother was already downstairs when I came into the kitchen. She was making tea. “Morning.” “Morning.” I watched her pour hot water into a cup. “Did you sleep?” “Fine.” She didn’t look at me. I put my phone on the table. “Do you remember the storm last night?” Her hand stopped. “Of course.” “I found something outside my window.” She turned. I unlocked my phone and showed her the photograph. For several seconds, she didn’t react. Then the color seemed to drain from her face. “Where did you get that?” “Outside my room.” She took the phone from my hand. Her eyes moved over the picture once. Then again. “Kaia, you shouldn’t have taken this.” That wasn’t the response I expected. “Why?” She placed the phone back on the table. “Because you shouldn’t be looking for things that don’t concern you.” I stared at her. “How can something outside my bedroom window not concern me?” “It’s nothing.” “Then why are you scared?” “I’m not scared.” “You are.” Her jaw tightened. I had finally found the c***k. Not in the forest. In her. I pushed my phone toward her. “Have you seen marks like these before?” She said nothing. “Mom.” She picked up her cup. “I’ve told you everything you need to know about your father.” The words landed harder than they should have. “My father has nothing to do with this.” She looked at me. For the first time, I wasn’t sure whether she was angry or afraid. “You don’t know that.” I went still. Neither of us moved. Then she looked away. “I have to go.” She walked toward the hallway. “Mom.” She stopped. “Did Dad ever go into that forest?” Her shoulders stiffened. That was answer enough. But she still didn’t turn around. “Don’t go near it, Kaia.” Then she left. I stood alone in the kitchen. The tea she had made was still steaming. I looked down at the photograph again. She hadn’t said the marks were impossible. She hadn’t said they were an animal’s. She had asked where I found them. That was different. I put my phone in my pocket. I needed to see the trail in daylight. Not because I wanted to prove my mother wrong. Because I wanted to know what she was afraid of. I waited until she drove away. Then I went outside. The morning air was cool, and the storm had washed most of the mud from the path around the house. The scratches beneath my window were still there. I crouched beside them. Up close, they were even stranger. Four narrow grooves. Almost perfectly parallel. I touched the ground beside one. Fresh. The soil was soft, but the marks were deep enough that whatever made them had weight behind it. I followed the trail around the side of the house. Three more sets. Then nothing. I frowned. The trail had simply stopped. No footprints. No broken branches. Nothing. I straightened. A movement caught my eye near the fence. I walked toward it. Something was caught between two pieces of wire. A small strip of dark fabric. I pulled it free. It was torn. Wet. And stitched into one corner was a symbol I didn’t recognize. A crescent crossed by a thin line. I turned it over. Nothing. My first thought was that it belonged to whoever had been outside my window. My second was worse. It looked familiar. I had seen that symbol before. I just couldn’t remember where. “Looking for something?” I spun around. A boy stood on the other side of the fence. I had seen him around town. Tall. Dark hair. Quiet. Ethan. He leaned against the fence as though he’d been there longer than I had. My hand closed around the piece of fabric. “What are you doing here?” “Walking.” “On private property?” He glanced toward the house. “Your fence is broken.” “That doesn’t answer my question.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “No. It doesn’t.” I didn’t like him immediately. Maybe because he wasn’t acting surprised to see me. Maybe because his eyes had already dropped to the fabric in my hand. “Where did you get that?” His expression changed. Only slightly. “Where did you find it?” I held it tighter. “Why?” “Because you shouldn’t have it.” That answer made my pulse jump. “What is it?” Ethan looked toward the forest. Then back at me. “I don’t know.” “You’re lying.” His eyes met mine. For a moment, something passed across his face that I couldn’t read. Fear, maybe. Then he stepped away from the fence. “Go inside, Kaia.” I almost laughed. “Do you people practice saying that?” “What?” “Go inside. Don’t go there. Don’t ask questions.” His face went still. “Who told you about the forest?” “No one.” “Then forget about it.” He turned. “Ethan.” He stopped. I lifted the torn fabric. “You know what this is.” He didn’t answer. “Don’t I deserve to know why?” He looked back at me. “You deserve to stay alive.” Then he walked away. I stood there, watching him disappear down the road. For several seconds, I didn’t move. Then I looked at the forest. The trees were completely still. And suddenly, the scratches didn’t feel like the strangest thing I’d found that morning. It was the fact that Ethan had recognized them. And whatever he knew, he was determined not to tell me. I didn’t go inside. Not immediately. I stood beside the fence with the torn piece of fabric in my hand, watching the road where Ethan had disappeared. You deserve to stay alive. The words should have frightened me enough to listen. Instead, they made me angry. Everyone knew something about my life except me. My mother. Ethan. Maybe other people too. And somehow, they had all decided that keeping me ignorant was the same thing as protecting me. I looked down at the symbol stitched into the fabric. The crescent. The line through it. I slipped it into my pocket. Then I went back into the house. My mother’s bedroom was at the end of the hallway. I had never been allowed inside when I was younger. Not because it was forbidden exactly. Because there had always been an understanding between us. Some doors stayed closed. I had respected that. Until now. I stood outside her room for a long moment. Then I opened the door. Nothing looked unusual. A bed. A wardrobe. A small desk near the window. I searched carefully, not wanting to destroy anything. For several minutes, I found nothing. Then I noticed the drawer. It was locked. I almost stopped. Almost. But the memory of my mother’s face when she saw the scratches wouldn’t leave me alone. I pulled the drawer. It opened. Inside were old papers, photographs, and a small wooden box. My hands trembled as I lifted the photographs. Most were ordinary. My mother when she was younger. Our old house. A birthday I barely remembered. Then I found him. My father. I had seen pictures of Daniel Rivers before, but never many. This one was different. He was standing beside the forest. Younger than I remembered him from the other photographs. And he wasn’t alone. A second person stood beside him. A man I didn’t recognize. I turned the photograph over. There was writing on the back. Blackridge — before the disappearance. My breath caught. Before the disappearance. Not after. Not during. Before. I studied the photograph again. My father’s expression wasn’t happy. He looked like someone who was expecting trouble. I turned it over again. Something else had been written underneath the first sentence. A date. And beneath it, three words. She must never know. My stomach tightened. She. Me? I looked at the date. It was eighteen years old. The same year my father disappeared. A floorboard creaked behind me. I spun around. My mother stood in the doorway. She didn’t shout. She didn’t ask what I was doing. She simply stared at the photograph in my hand. “Put it down.” I swallowed. “Who is that?” She didn’t answer. “Why does it say I must never know?” “Kaia.” “Did Dad write this?” “No.” “Then who did?” She crossed the room and took the photograph from me. Her hands were shaking. That frightened me more than anything else. “Your father loved you.” The words came quietly. I stared at her. “I know.” “No.” She looked at the photograph. “You don’t.” Something broke in her expression. For a moment, she looked exhausted. Not angry. Not secretive. Just tired. “Your father didn’t leave because he stopped loving you.” My heart seemed to stop. “What are you saying?” She looked at me. “He disappeared.” “I know.” “No.” Her voice cracked. “You don’t.” I waited. She closed her eyes. “When you were born, something happened.” The room seemed to grow colder. “What happened?” She opened her mouth. Then stopped. A sharp sound came from outside. Not a howl. Not a knock. Just the sudden c***k of a branch. We both turned toward the window. My mother went pale. She stepped toward me. “Stay here.” She moved to close the curtains. And that was when I saw it. A reflection in the glass. Not a person. Two amber points in the darkness beyond the house. My breath caught. I turned. There was nothing outside the window. Only trees. My mother had seen my face. “What did you see?” I couldn’t answer. She grabbed my shoulders. “Kaia.” I looked at her. For the first time, I saw something in her eyes that I had never seen before. Fear for me. Real fear. Then my palm began to burn. I gasped. The photograph fell from my hand. A sharp heat spread across my skin, so sudden that I dropped to my knees. “Kaia!” I clutched my hand. The pain lasted only a few seconds. Then it disappeared. I looked down. There was a faint crescent-shaped mark on my palm. My mother stared at it. She didn’t speak. Neither did I. She knew. That was the moment I understood. Whatever had happened eighteen years ago wasn’t finished. It had found me. My mother reached for my hand. I pulled away. “What is that?” Her eyes filled with tears. “Something I prayed you’d never have to know about.” I picked up the photograph. My voice was barely above a whisper. “Is Dad alive?” She didn’t answer. But she didn’t say no. That was enough. I looked at the old photograph again. For eighteen years, I had believed my father had abandoned me. Now, for the first time, I had another possibility. Maybe he hadn't left. Maybe someone had made sure I believed he did. And if that was true, I wasn’t going to wait for my mother to tell me the rest. I was going to find out myself. Outside, beyond the window, the forest stood silent. But I could no longer convince myself it was empty.