Years passed.
The story of the missing children in Birchwood became a whisper, then a rumor, then a myth. People forgot the names. They forgot the fear. The field grew bright with wildflowers, and laughter returned to the meadow.
But on quiet nights, when the moon hangs low and the air turns heavy, some say you can still hear it—soft footsteps moving between the trees that no longer stand.
A voice, faint and curious, counting somewhere in the dark.
One… two… three…
The locals say it's just the wind.
The children say it's the echo of a game that was never meant to end.
And somewhere, far from the field, a young woman sometimes wakes before dawn, her hand brushing the faint scar on her palm. She listens, just for a moment, to the hush of the world.
When she hears nothing, she smiles.
Because silence, she's learned, is the forest's way of saying thank you.
Final Line:
In every game of hide-and-seek, someone must be the seeker.
The forest still waits for the next one to count.