The forest did not speak.
It only breathed.
Mist clung low to the ground, thick and unmoving, as if the storm had pressed its last breath into the soil and left it there.
Broken branches lay scattered like fallen bones, stripped of leaves, their pale undersides turned upward. The air smelled of wet bark and rain-soaked earth, heavy enough that even breathing felt slow.
Neither of the children moved.
Aster stood frozen at the edge of the clearing, one foot lifted as if he had forgotten how to place it down. Lily remained several steps behind him, her small hands clenched in the folds of her dress. The world seemed to narrow, shrinking until there was only what lay before them.
The puppy whimpered again.
The sound was soft—barely more than a breath—but it cut through the stillness like a thread pulled too tight.
Aster swallowed.
The fallen tree was massive, its trunk split and darkened where the storm had torn it from the earth. Beneath it lay a girl.
She did not move.
Her dark hair spilled across the damp ground like ink soaking into parchment. One arm lay at an angle that did not look right, her other half-hidden beneath her body. Her clothes were torn and muddied, as though the forest itself had tried to claim her. There were marks on her skin—scratches, bruises—but no sound came from her lips, no rise or fall of her chest that Aster could see.
The puppy pressed itself against her, nosing at her sleeve, licking at her hand as if trying to wake her.
Aster's heart began to pound so loudly he was certain Lily could hear it.
"She's…" Lily started, then stopped.
The word would not come.
Aster took a step forward before he realized he had decided to move. His foot crunched against wet leaves, the sound far too loud.
The puppy lifted its head at once, ears twitching, tail giving a weak wag as if hope had been hiding inside it all along.
"It's… it's alright," Aster whispered, though he wasn't sure who he was speaking to—the puppy, his sister, or himself.
Lily finally moved too, but only enough to stand beside him. Her eyes were wide, reflecting the pale light filtering through the broken canopy above.
"She's not from the village," Lily said quietly. "I've never seen her."
Aster nodded. He hadn't either. And he knew nearly everyone.
The girl's face was pale—too pale—but peaceful in a way that felt wrong, like still water hiding something deep beneath it. Her expression was empty, untouched by fear or pain, as if whatever had happened had already passed beyond her reach.
Aster crouched down slowly, careful not to slip. His hands trembled as he reached out, then hesitated.
What if touching her made it worse?
What if she was already—
"Don't," Lily said suddenly, her voice sharp.
"What if she's dead?"
The word fell between them, heavy and final.
Aster flinched.
"She can't be," he said, though doubt crept into his voice. "The puppy… it wouldn't stay if she was."
As if understanding, the puppy whimpered again and pressed closer to the girl's side.
Aster noticed then—a faint movement. So slight it could have been imagined. The barest rise beneath her torn clothing.
His breath caught.
"She's alive," he said, louder now. "Lily—she's alive."
Lily stared harder, as if willing herself to see it too. After a long moment, her shoulders loosened just a little.
"But she's hurt," Lily whispered. "Really hurt."
Aster nodded. He didn't look away this time.
The storm came back to him then—not as sound, but as memory.
The rain had been merciless that night, pounding against the roof until it felt like the sky itself was trying to break in. The wind had howled, bending trees until they screamed. And through it all, the puppy had cried from the corner of the shed.
Their father had stood in the doorway, his shadow long and heavy in the lantern light.
"It's too much trouble," he had said, his voice firm, tired. "We don't have food to spare. We don't have time."
"But it's just a puppy," Aster had argued, clutching it close. "I can take care of it."
"You already have responsibilities," their father replied. "This storm will kill it anyway if it stays."
Aster remembered the way his chest had tightened when his father took the puppy from his arms. The way Lily had grabbed his sleeve, shaking her head.
Then the door had closed.
And the storm had swallowed everything.
Aster squeezed his eyes shut, pushing the memory away.
"This is my fault," he muttered.
Lily turned to him sharply. "No, it isn't."
"If I had gone after it sooner—"
"You weren't allowed," she said. "And you didn't know."
Aster opened his mouth to argue, but stopped. Lily's voice had that tone—the one that meant she had already decided.
She knelt beside him, careful not to step too close to the fallen tree.
"What do we do?" she asked.
Aster looked at the girl again.
Her lashes were dark against her pale skin.
There was something about her—
something that made the forest seem quieter around her, as if it were holding its breath. Even the mist seemed to curl inward, reluctant to touch her.
"We can't leave her," he said.
Lily nodded immediately. "We bring her home."
Aster hesitated. "Father will—"
"I don't care," Lily said, standing. "She'll die if we don't."
The puppy barked softly, as if agreeing.
Aster exhaled slowly. He reached for the girl's wrist, careful this time, and felt it.
A pulse.
Weak, but there.
Relief hit him so suddenly his eyes burned.
"She's breathing," he said. "Barely—but she is."
Lily let out a shaky breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
Together, they stood there for a moment longer, the forest watching, the mist swirling around their ankles. Somewhere far away, a branch cracked, and both of them flinched.
The storm might have passed—but the forest had not returned to normal.
Aster straightened, resolve settling into his chest like a stone.
"We'll make a stretcher," he said. "From branches. Slowly."
Lily nodded, already moving. "And the puppy comes too."
Aster glanced at the small creature, now curled protectively against the girl's side.
"Of course," he said.
Neither of them noticed the faintest change then.
Not the way the mist shifted.
Not the way the air seemed to thrum, just once, like a distant echo.
And not the way the girl's fingers twitched—
only slightly—before going still again.