The forest hadn't yet decided whether to wake or keep dreaming. The air hung heavy, painted in that uncertain hue between night and morning—where shadows no longer belong to the dark, yet the light still refuses to claim them. Smoke drifted low, clinging to the ground like memory refusing to fade. Each wisp carried the scent of burnt resin and blood, weaving through the trees like half-forgotten whispers.
Shimi stood motionless for what felt like a lifetime. The world seemed to breathe differently now—slower, quieter, heavier—as if time itself was afraid to move. Her eyes remained fixed on the path Veythor and the little boy had taken, the last traces of their silhouettes swallowed by the forest's dim grey mouth. It almost felt unreal, like a dream she had failed to wake from—a dream too gentle in its cruelty, too silent in its horror.
