Emily awoke to a scratching sound.
At first, she thought it was part of a dream—another echo of the forest, some leftover scrap of memory still trapped in her head. But the noise persisted. Soft. Repetitive. Like fingernails on wood.
She sat up in bed, her heart thudding in her ears.
The sound was coming from beneath her floorboards.
It stopped the moment her feet touched the carpet.
She crouched, placed her ear against the hardwood.
Silence.
She stayed like that for a long moment, body tense, breath held.
Nothing.
Still, something gnawed at her—an unease that had been growing since she planted the charm. The forest had let her leave. But what if a piece of it had followed her?
What if she was the final anchor?
At school, the others looked just as worn.
Ava had dark circles under her eyes. Marcus was quieter than usual. Even Leah, once quick to laugh, now clutched her bunny like a lifeline, eyes always scanning the corners of the room.
After class, they gathered in the library again.
Emily laid out her journal and flipped to a page she'd marked in red ink.
"Do you remember the stories about the children who vanished from their homes?" she asked. "The ones who didn't even make it to the forest?"
Marcus nodded. "Devon mentioned them. Said some were taken before they even played."
"Maybe," Ava said softly, "the forest doesn't always wait."
Leah looked up. "Then it's growing again?"
"No," Emily said. "It's leaking."
She slid a sketch across the table.
It was her house—her bedroom. But now there were dark root-like lines drawn beneath the floor.
"I think I brought part of the game back with me. And it's looking for cracks."
That evening, Marcus and Ava came to her house.
Emily's parents were still too relieved by her return to question why her friends were always around—or why they sprinkled salt at the thresholds when they thought no one was looking.
Together, they pried up a floorboard from Emily's room.
Beneath the wood was not dirt or concrete.
It was black bark.
They recoiled.
"It's the Counting Tree," Ava whispered.
"No," Emily said grimly. "It's something new."
Marcus reached down and touched the bark.
It pulsed.
Once.
Then again.
Like a heartbeat.
"We didn't just win the game," he said. "We brought back its seed."
Emily reached for the journal. "Then we have to stop it before it roots."
They made a plan.
That night, under the cover of darkness, they returned to the forest—not to play, not to seek, but to bury the piece Emily had carried back.
They brought the floorboard wrapped in cloth, the bark piece carefully extracted and sealed inside a jar marked with salt and symbols Ava had etched.
"We burn it," Marcus said.
"No," Emily replied. "We give it back."
They reached the base of the ancient tree—the one where the final charm had been planted. The bark still bore the faint shimmer of silver light. The roots were motionless, the hollow quiet.
Emily crouched and placed the jar inside the hollow.
The air around them shifted.
The wind dropped.
The forest grew still.
And for a moment… they heard it.
A breath.
The jar rattled once—and cracked.
Then the bark closed over it, swallowing it whole.
No flames.
No screams.
Just silence.
Like a door gently shutting.
They stayed at the edge of the forest until sunrise.
Emily watched the leaves shift in the light, the shadows no longer slithering with menace, but still… alive.
"What now?" Ava asked.
Emily looked toward the rising sun. "Now we wait."
Marcus frowned. "For what?"
"For the forest to decide what we are."
Days passed.
No more dreams.
No more scratches beneath the floor.
But the mark on Emily's palm remained.
Leah began drawing again—pictures of trees, children, doors that opened into roots. One of her sketches showed a girl standing at the center of a spiral forest, holding a lantern made of bones.
It looked like Emily.
Leah handed it to her silently.
"Thanks," Emily whispered.
Leah finally smiled. "I think it liked you."
Emily blinked. "The forest?"
Leah nodded. "You played fair."
One night, Emily sat in her room, flipping through Devon's journal again. She noticed something she hadn't before—a faded line at the very bottom of the last page:
If the game ever ends, and someone survives it, remember this:
The forest remembers, too.
The next morning, she returned to the library alone.
She opened her own journal, stared at the title she'd written weeks before: RULES TO SURVIVE THE FOREST.
Then she turned the page and began a new section.
RULES TO KEEP THE FOREST ASLEEP
Do not speak its name aloud.Do not bring pieces back across its borders.Remember—but do not worship.Do not seek the Counting Tree once it is gone.Never, ever finish the lullaby.
She paused.
Then added a sixth rule:
If you hear the count begin again—run.
That night, as she lay in bed, Emily dreamed.
But it wasn't the same as before.
This time, she stood in the forest—not as a player, not as prey—but as a figure cloaked in light. All around her were whispers, laughter, memories long buried. But they didn't pull her down.
They followed her.
Watched her.
Trusted her.
And then the wind shifted.
In the distance, barely audible:
"One…"
Emily's eyes snapped open.
She sat up in bed.
Silence.
Nothing.
Then—
Two knocks on the window.
She rose, heart pounding, and slowly pulled back the curtain.
No one was there.
Only the wind.
Only the trees.
She pressed her palm to the glass. The mark glowed faintly.
She didn't run.
She whispered softly:
"I'm still here."