Trespass

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.

But last night, a light had flickered in the woods. Not a flashlight—too steady, too amber. Like a candle in a window where no window should be. trespass

The forest remembered her trespass.

Lena had read that sign every morning for twelve years, walking the perimeter of her father's sheep farm. The Morrows were the last true recluses in the county. Old Man Morrow had shot a surveyor's drone out of the sky last spring; the sheriff just shrugged. But she pressed on

She ducked under the wire.