The sun rose slowly over Hollow Creek, spilling golden light across streets still scarred but alive. Windows that had been shuttered for weeks now reflected the morning, revealing houses patched, gardens tended, and the faint hum of life returning.
In the hospital, the children stirred. Ethan stretched, blinking against the sunlight streaming through the blinds. Will sat up slowly, his hair tousled, but the glow in his eyes was steady — no shadows, no lingering fear. One by one, the children emerged from their sleep, faces pale but their spirits intact. Nurses cheered quietly, parents wept, and the hallways, once silent with dread, echoed with laughter again.
Robert stood in the doorway, watching his son. Will turned to him, a small, cautious smile forming.
"Dad… it feels like a dream," Will said softly.
"It was a nightmare," Robert replied, voice rough with exhaustion. "But we made it through — together."
Across town, Tom walked with his family through the quiet streets. His daughters clung to his hands, and Ethan fell in step beside him. Every step felt heavy with memory, with the knowledge of what they had survived. Yet the town around them seemed to breathe again — fragile, but alive.
The sheriff patrolled the outskirts, his gaze lingering on the forest. Even though the Hollow had been sealed, the shadows in the trees reminded him that darkness never truly disappeared — only waited. He exchanged a look with Robert, who nodded solemnly. "We'll be ready," Robert said quietly.
In the church, the priest lit candles one last time, murmuring prayers for the town, the children, and the souls touched by the Hollow. He paused, glancing toward the distant forest, and whispered softly: "May they never forget. And may they always have courage."
---
By midday, Hollow Creek had begun the slow process of healing. Streets were swept clean, gardens replanted, and neighbors emerged from hiding, sharing stories of fear and survival. There was laughter, yes — but also caution, a collective memory of the Hollow's hunger etched deep into their hearts.
Robert visited the hospital again, sitting by Will's bed. "You're going to be okay, son," he said. "All of you are."
Will nodded, eyes steady. "I know. And we'll make sure no one forgets what happened… so it can't come back."
Outside, the forest swayed in the breeze. Beneath the roots, far below where the Hollow had pulsed, the earth was silent. Its hunger quelled, its whispers bound. But in the way the wind moved and the shadows lingered, there was a sense that some things, though defeated, never truly die — only wait.
And as Hollow Creek healed, its people remembered both the terror and the courage, the darkness and the light. They remembered that fear can consume, but faith, blood, and courage can reclaim what is lost.
The town would sleep again. The children would laugh again. And life — fragile, stubborn, unbroken — would go on.
But in the back of every mind that had witnessed the Hollow, the memory lingered:
The forest watches. The Hollow waits. And courage is never optional.