Ember does not speak at first.
She just goes still.
Completely still.
One moment we are sitting together in the sunlight, drinking tea and pretending we are normal people in a normal world. The next, her spine straightens like a pulled string. She stares into the trees with wide, unblinking eyes. Every part of her stills except her breath.
The mug trembles in her hand.
Then she stands.
Slowly. Cautiously. Like something invisible hooked its fingers into her chest and tugged with quiet insistence. Her eyes are fixed on the shadows between the trunks, not frightened, not frozen, just drawn forward as if the forest whispered her name.
She takes a step toward the tree line.
Then another.
“Ember,” I whisper. “What is it?”
She does not answer. Her breath is quick but not panicked. Not
