The breath is behind me.
I feel it before I hear it — warm and cold at once, the faintest touch against the back of my neck, like someone leaning close enough to whisper.
It grows louder, closer, heavier — stretched so thin it feels like it's been following me for a long time, waiting for me to notice.
I don't turn.
The breath is closer now, but it's not what holds me still.
The oak — the dress — her. If I look away, I might lose it, lose her and I've already done that once.
The breath brushes my skin. My shoulders stiffen. My chest tightens.
I spin around—
Nothing.
The clearing is still. Empty.
My pulse the only sound hammering in my ears. But something about the silence feels... tuned. Like the space itself is listening.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The quiet presses in, heavy and airless. I finally turn to leave.
The instant my gaze leaves the oak, the forest exhales —
A faint wind through the pines, the whisper of needles, a ripple through the grass. Then—
The dress moves.
Not swaying — shifting. As if something inside has just slipped its arms into the sleeves. For a moment, it almost feels like it's stepping forward, out of the tree. I don't stay to find out.
I run.
Branches whip at my arms.
Snag in my sleeves.
Tear at my coat.
My boots sink into the mud with a sick pull that tries to keep me there. I don't dare a glance at the compass -I just need to get away from that tree, from the thing wearing her dress.
The birch flashes past me. White bark peeling in long curls.
The moss-covered log — slick, treacherous under my boot as I vault it.
I keep going.
The birch again.
The moss log. Again.
My chest tightens, but I push on — maybe there's another tree like it, maybe the forest just looks the same here.
I run harder. My lungs burn.
The birch.
The log.
A cold weight settles low in my stomach.
By the third time, my steps falter. The air feels thicker. The light hasn't changed, but the shadows stretch longer than they should, like they're leaning towards me. The forest feels close now — not just surrounding me, but drawing in.
And there it is.
The break in the trees—
Exactly where I started.
Only now it feels different. The gap between the trucks seems wider, the light inside flatter, dulled to a gray that makes my stomach twist. Like a mouth parting, ready to swallow me whole.
My legs give out before I realize I've stopped. I drop to my knees; palms pressed into the damp earth. My lungs dragging in air that taste like metal and pine. My pulse hammering against the inside of my skull.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________
I fumble at my pocket and pull out the compass. For a moment, I just stare at it, my hand trembling. Then my grip tightens until the round edges bite into my skin. I lift my arm, ready to hurl it into the trees, to hear it crack against a trunk and vanish into the undergrowth.
Free myself of this...this thing.
But I stop.
The weight of it feels wrong in my hand — hot, like it's been holding on to me instead of the other way around.
I don't look at its face — I can't bear to see it's mocking arrow — so I stare just at the back of it, smooth and worn, where her fingers must have clung to it. The marks there are faint, shallow scratches, but I can see them clearly, like she'd left them for me to find.
My breath catches. The anger surges up, sharp, sharp enough to sting, but it doesn't have anywhere to go.
A hot, bitter taste swells in my mouth.
She brought me here.
She gave me this thing — pressed it into my palms with those pale, shaking hands — and told me to follow it. I thought it meant trust. I thought it meant love.
Now it feels like a leash.
A curse catches in my throat. I can't say it. I can't spit her name like poison. Instead it comes out low, breaking at the edges, half-prayer, half-accusation.
The compass is heavier now, the pull of it sinking into my palm. I force myself to turn it over.
The needle points straight to the oak.
Unmoving. Certain.
I stare at it for a moment. Thinking if this is really the path she hoped I'd find.
Is this really where she wanted me to follow this thing to.
I let out a deep heavy sigh as I struggle to find my footing again.
The breath finds me the moment I step towards the clearing, curling against my cheek, settling into the spaces between my own inhales. It carried a faint metallic tang, like blood cooling on iron.
The hollow yawns before me. The dress hangs limp, empty sleeves drapes at its side. But the bark around the split is carved with marks. Were they there before?
Curved lines, jagged edges, looping into each other like a language I've seen before.
And I have.
A memory surfaces, sharp and sudden:
I'm small, curled against her side, a heavy book open across both our laps. The paper smells faintly of dust and pressed flowers. The pictures are painted in soft colors; the margins filled with curling jagged shapes just like these. Her voice drops for certain lines, and she smiles at the same place every time she tells it - the part where the Queen follows her golden compass to a place she cannot turn back from.
The memory leaves a hollow ache in my chest.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The breath in the hollow deepens, pulling at my own until they match. The dress stirs — one sleeve lifting in a slow, limp flutter, like the faintest beckoning arm — before it slips backwards into the hollow, vanishing into the dark.
The empty space it leaves behind feels worse.
I glance once at the trees around the clearing. The whisper of the pine needles sounds almost like laughter.
The compass needle begins to spin. Slowly. Not broken — waiting.
I take one step forward. Then another.
And then —
I'm inside.