The breath arrives before the sound.
It brushes the back of my neck, a touch both warm and cold, like someone leaning close enough to whisper but holding the words in their mouth. The sensation stretches thin, heavy with patience, as if it has been trailing me for years and has finally decided to reach out.
I don't turn.
I feel the oak behind me – the hollow trunk, the hanging dress, her. If I look way, I might lose it. Lose her. I've already done that once.
The breath grazes my skin again. My shoulders stiffen; my chest locks tight.
I spin around.
Nothing.
The clearing lies empty and still. My pulse becomes the only sound, hammering in my ears. Yet the silence feels tuned, like the air itself is holding its breath, listening. It presses against me – heavy, airless, waiting.
At last I force myself to leave.
The instant my gaze slips from the oak, the forest exhales. A faint wind ripples through the pines, whispering needles against one another, stirring the grass. And then-
The dress moves.
Not a sway. A shift. As though something inside has slipped its arms into the sleeves. For a moment, it seems ready to step out of the tree.
I don't stay to find out.
I run.
Branches whip at my arms, snagging my sleeves, tearing at my coat. Mud clutches at my boots with a sick pull that tries to keep me there. I don't dare glance at the compass. I just need to get away – from the tree, from the thing wearing her dress.
The birch flashes past me: white bark peeling in long curls. The moss-covered log: slick and treacherous beneath my boots as I vault it.
I keep going.
The birch again. The log again.
My chest tightens. Maybe there's another tree like it, another log. Maybe the forest simply 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 grows thicker, as if congealing around me. The light hasn't changed, but the shadows stretch longer than they should, leaning towards me like reaching hands. The forest feels close now — not just surrounding me, but drawing in.
And then I see it: the break in the trees.
Exactly where I started.
Only now it feels different. The gap between the trees seems wider. The light inside has dulled to a gray that makes my stomach twist. It looks like a mouth ready to swallow me whole.
My legs give out. I drop to my knees, palms pressing into the damp earth. My lungs drag in air that tastes of metal and pine. My pulse hammers against the inside of my skull.
With trembling fingers I fumble in my pocket for the compass. For a moment I simply stare at it. 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. To rid myself of this thing.
But I stop.
The weight of it feels wrong in my hand — hot, as if it has been holding on to me instead of the other way around. I don't look at its face. I can't bear to see its mocking arrow. Instead I stare at the back, smooth and worn where her fingers must have clung.
There are faint scratches there, shallow and deliberate, like a note she tried to leave me on the metal.
My breath catches. Anger surges, sharp enough to sting, but it has nowhere to go. A hot, bitter taste swells in my mouth.
She brought me here.
She pressed this compass 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 builds in my throat, but I can't say it. I can't spit her name like poison. It comes out low instead, breaking at the edges, half prayer, half accusation.
The compass grows heavier, its pull sinking into my palm. I force myself to turn it over.
The needle points straight to the oak. Unmoving. Unyielding.
I stare at it, thinking.
Is this truly the path she wanted me to find? Is this what she meant by "follow it"?
A ragged breath shudders out of me. I try to stand.
The breath finds me again the moment I step toward the clearing. It curls against my cheek, nestling into the spaces between my own inhales. It carries a faint metallic tang, like old blood.
The hollow yawns before me. The dress hangs limp now, empty sleeves slumped at its sides. But the bark around the split is carved with marks. Were they there before?
Curved lines and jagged hooks loop into one another like a script I almost recognize.
And I do.
A memory surfaces—sharp, sudden. I'm small, curled against her side, a heavy book spread across both our laps. The paper smells of dust and pressed flowers. Pictures painted in soft colors, margins filled with curling, jagged shapes just like these. Her voice drops on certain lines, and she always smiles at the same part—the moment 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 at the trees. The whisper of the pine needles sounds almost like laughter.
The compass needle begins to spin. Slowly. Not broke – waiting.
I take one step forward. Then another.
And then —
I'm inside.