Where the Wolves Breathe

She could feel the forest die when they returned.

The forest had always been her friend.

It was the one place that ever made sense to Ivy Swan - the rhythm of rain on cedar, the hush after a storm. The woods were alive to her. Every root, every gust of wind, every whisper through the ferns spoke a language she understood.

It was how she breathed. How she stayed grounded.

But that morning, the forest wasn't breathing right.

The air was too still. The birds were silent. Even the river moved slow, like it didn't want to draw attention to itself.

And Ivy felt it - the shift.

It crawled up her spine like static, her pulse syncing with the cold ground beneath her feet. The energy wasn't natural. It didn't belong to Forks. It didn't belong anywhere she knew.

Something foreign had returned.

Paul Lahote X OC