Fog clung to the forest floor like silken cobwebs as Nora trudged forward, her lantern casting shaky beams onto tangled roots. The bitter taste of regret lingered in her throat; she’d stormed off after the fight with her sister, chasing solitude in the woods behind their cabin. Her flaw, an unyielding pride, throbbed like a bruise she refused to acknowledge.
Ahead, she spotted a circle of wilting roses, their petals blackened at the edges. The soft drone of bees buzzed unnaturally, low and dirgelike. A breeze carried a scent of decay, and a whisper seemed to crawl from the shadows: Turn back.
But Nora’s anger drowned the unease. She’d prove she didn’t need her sister—or anyone—telling her what to do. As the roses parted beneath her boots, the drone of bees morphed, wet and guttural, like chewing.
She hesitated. For a fleeting second, she thought of home, of her sister’s voice calling out.
Then she pressed on, the air cooling as silence swallowed the forest. Relief flickered when nothing happened. She chuckled, shaking her head.
The laughter splintered as waxen hands erupted from the earth, the roses twisting into tendrils that coiled around her throat. Sweet honey oozed from her skin as the hands dragged her down, the taste of rot filling her mouth.
The forest resumed its hum.
