Trespass Direct

She ducked under the wire.

But last night, a light had flickered in the woods. Not a flashlight—too steady, too amber. Like a candle in a window where no window should be.

Lena had read that sign every morning for twelve years, walking the perimeter of her father's sheep farm. The Morrows were the last true recluses in the county. Old Man Morrow had shot a surveyor's drone out of the sky last spring; the sheriff just shrugged. trespass

The forest remembered her trespass.

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. She ducked under the wire

Lena pushed the door open.

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. Like a candle in a window where no window should be

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.

Wrong , the forest seemed to say. You are wrong here.