Trespass ⚡

Lena pushed the door open.

But she pressed on. The light flickered again, closer now. Through the undergrowth, she saw it: a cabin. Not old, not new. Impossible. The timber was fresh-cut cedar, but the hinges were forged in a shape no blacksmith today would know. The candle inside guttered as she stepped onto the porch. trespass

The fence wasn't high, just a rusty whisper of wire and splintered post. On the other side, the forest grew thick and dark, a lung of green that had belonged to the Morrow family for a hundred years. A sign, pocked with birdshot, read: TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT. SURVIVORS WILL BE SHOT AGAIN. Lena pushed the door open

But the hum had become a song. And the song had her daughter's name in it—a daughter who had wandered into these same woods three years ago and never walked out. Through the undergrowth, she saw it: a cabin

The door was ajar.

She reached out to touch it.