The Night Before
Four years had passed since they came back.
Four years since the woods went silent, since the police closed the files, since the town forced itself to forget.
The twins were twenty now.
Old enough to leave, old enough to pretend the world made sense again.
They had spent those years rebuilding what was lost — birthdays, laughter, the illusion of normalcy. But time doesn't heal everything. Sometimes it just teaches you how to walk with the limp.
And tomorrow, Elena was leaving.
That night, the air in their shared room felt heavy, like it remembered too much.
Mara lay awake, watching her sister pack the last of her things. The pale blue suitcase looked small against the wall, worn at the edges, its zipper half-open as though uncertain about the journey ahead.
"You're really going," Mara said quietly.
It wasn't a question.
Elena looked up from where she sat on the floor, tucking one of her sketchbooks between folded sweaters. "It's time," she said. "I just… need space."
"You've had space," Mara said, her voice sharp without meaning to be. "Four years of pretending we're fine. Why now?"
Elena hesitated. Then she smiled — that same polite, practiced smile she'd worn since their return.
"Because I don't think I'll ever be fine here."
The lamp on the desk cast a soft amber glow, painting long shadows across the room. Elena went back to her sketchbook. The pencil moved smoothly, the paper whispering faintly with each stroke.
"What are you drawing?" Mara asked.
"The woods," Elena murmured. "But not like they were. Like they are now — in my dreams."
Mara sat up. "You're still dreaming about that place?"
Elena didn't look up. "Every night."
Her tone was calm, but her hand trembled slightly. "Sometimes, it's not even dark anymore. Everything's white. The trees, the ground… even the air. And there's this sound — like breathing."
Mara's chest tightened. "You shouldn't—"
"I know," Elena cut in. "But I can't stop."
She tore the page out and held it up. Two girls stood beneath a massive oak tree. Its hollow pulsed with faint white light. Behind them, the woods stretched endlessly, roots like veins threading through the soil.
Mara looked away. "That's not what it looked like."
Elena's smile didn't reach her eyes. "No. But I think that's what it remembers."
The words lingered.
The room seemed smaller now, the air colder.
Mara turned toward the window, staring out at the shape of the dead oak in their yard. The hollow caught the moonlight, and for a moment she thought she saw movement — a ripple, like something inside had shifted.
When she turned back, Elena was watching her.
"You don't have to leave," Mara whispered. "You can still change your mind."
Elena shook her head gently. "If I stay, it'll start again."
"What will?"
"The forgetting."
The answer didn't make sense, but the way she said it — low, certain, almost afraid — made Mara's throat close.
They didn't speak again after that. Elena turned off the lamp and slid under the covers, her breathing slow, even. But Mara stayed awake, listening.
The silence stretched, broken only by the soft ticking of the clock. Then, faintly — a whisper.
At first, she thought it was Elena talking in her sleep again, the same soft muttering she sometimes heard from across the room. But as Mara listened harder, she realized the voice wasn't quite her sister's.
It sounded doubled. Layered.
Like two girls whispering the same words a heartbeat apart.
Remember the pact.
Mara sat up, heart pounding, but the room was still.
Elena's eyes were closed. The suitcase waited by the door. The moonlight brushed against the floorboards like water.
Outside, the hollow tree groaned in the wind, its branches scraping against the window — patient, rhythmic, almost human.