Trespass

Inside, there was no furniture. No dust. Just a single candle on a bare floor, and in the center of the flame, a small, perfect handprint pressed into the air, as if the fire itself had been cupped by a child.

Now, at 5 a.m., Lena stood at the fence. Her father’s shotgun was heavy in her hands, but she hadn't loaded it. That wasn't the trespass she was planning.

But the hum had become a song. And the song had her daughter's name in it—a daughter who had wandered into these same woods three years ago and never walked out. trespass

And for the first time in three years, her daughter did, too.

Wrong , the forest seemed to say. You are wrong here. Inside, there was no furniture

She should turn back. Every story, every prayer, every lesson from her father screamed it. Trespass wasn't just a legal word. It was a moral one. A sacred one. You don't enter a place that has closed itself to you.

She reached out to touch it.

The forest remembered her trespass.