The forest resisted them.
Every step felt heavier than the last, as if the ground itself wished to keep what it had taken. The branches Aster and Lily had tied together bent under the girl's small weight, leaves brushing against her tangled hair as they lifted the makeshift stretcher between them.
She was lighter than Aster expected.
Too light.
The thought pressed uncomfortably against his chest, and he pushed it away, focusing instead on the rhythm of his steps. One foot forward. Then the other. Don't trip. Don't slip. Don't think.
Lily walked ahead, clearing the path where she could, her smaller hands pushing aside low branches. She kept glancing back, as if afraid that if she didn't look, the girl might disappear.
The puppy trotted beside them, refusing to stray far, stopping every so often to look back and whimper softly. Each time it did, Lily would whisper, "We're taking her. See?
We're not leaving."
Mist curled around their legs, thick and pale, dulling sound and distance. The village felt impossibly far away.
"She hasn't woken up," Lily said quietly after a while.
Aster swallowed. "She's breathing."
"I know," Lily replied. "I can see it. I just…
thought maybe she would."
Aster didn't answer. He had noticed it too. The girl's chest rose and fell faintly, but her face remained still, untouched by the struggle around her.
Too still.
They passed the broken tree line where the storm had done the most damage.
Splintered trunks leaned at strange angles, some cracked nearly in half, their roots torn from the earth like exposed ribs. Aster slowed there, careful, his arms aching from the strain.
Lily stopped suddenly.
"Aster," she whispered.
He froze. "What?"
She pointed.
For a moment, Aster thought it was nothing—just mist shifting, branches creaking as they settled. But then he felt it too.
A presence.
Not a sound. Not a shape.
Just the sense of being watched.
The forest seemed to press inward, the air growing colder, heavier. The puppy tucked its tail between its legs and whimpered, pressing closer to the stretcher.
Aster tightened his grip. "We're almost out," he said, though he wasn't sure it was true.
Lily nodded, but her eyes stayed on the trees.
They moved again, faster now.
With each step toward the edge of the forest, the mist thinned, the air warming just slightly. The oppressive silence began to loosen its grip, replaced by distant sounds—voices, movement, life.
The village.
Aster felt his shoulders sag with relief.
Then—
The girl stirred.
It was so slight that Aster almost missed it. A faint shift of weight. A soft sound, barely more than a breath escaping her lips.
Lily gasped. "She moved."
Aster stopped at once. "Did you see her eyes?"
"No—but her hand—" Lily leaned closer, her voice trembling. "I think she felt something."
The girl's fingers curled weakly against the rough cloth beneath her. Her face remained pale, her lashes unmoving, but there was no mistaking it now.
She was alive.
Aster felt something hot sting behind his eyes and looked away quickly, ashamed of it.
"We're almost there," he said softly, as if she could hear him. "Just hold on."
They crossed the final line of trees, the forest releasing them at last.
The village lay ahead, battered but standing.
Roofs were damaged, shutters torn loose, and puddles filled the uneven streets.
People moved in clusters, voices overlapping—talk of the storm, of fallen trees, of strange signs and whispered fears.
Someone noticed them.
"By the gates—what are they carrying?"
Another voice followed. "Is that a child?"
The murmurs grew louder as they stepped fully into view.
Aster straightened, despite the pain in his arms. Lily lifted her chin, refusing to slow.
Their father was among the first to reach them.
"What were you thinking?" he demanded, then stopped short when he saw the girl. His expression shifted—shock, concern, something unreadable.
"She was in the forest," Lily said quickly. "A tree fell on her. She's hurt."
"And the puppy," Aster added, his voice tight. "It led us to her."
Their father's jaw clenched. He looked at the girl, then at the children, then back toward the forest.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he sighed, deep and heavy. "Bring her inside."
Relief washed over Aster so strongly his knees nearly gave out.
Villagers gathered as they carried the girl through the narrow streets. Some crossed themselves. Others whispered.
"Storm-born," someone muttered.
"No," another hissed. "Don't say things like that."
"She's too pale…"
"Look at her hair…"
Aster ignored them all.
They laid her gently on a bed near the hearth, warmth slowly returning to the room.
The puppy curled up beside her at once, resting its head against her side as if standing guard.
Lily hovered close, watching for any sign of movement.
The girl did not wake.
Outside, the clouds began to part.
The storm, at last, was truly over.
A thin line of dawn crept over the horizon, pale and uncertain, touching the village roofs with light.
Aster stood at the doorway and looked back at the girl one last time.
She lay silent and unmoving, her dark hair spread across the pillow, her face peaceful—almost too peaceful.
For anyone who did not know better, it might have looked like sleep.
Or like something final.
And as the first light of morning entered the room, no one noticed the faint shadow that flickered briefly across the wall—then vanished, as if it had never been there at all.