In the woods, the rules of the world fray and tear. What's left behind are half-memories and half-madness, the parts of a person that show themselves in the dark. Taissa is one of the few still holding on to structure, routines, order, control, but even that is slipping. The sleepwalking started quiet: dirt under her nails, scratches on her arms. But now she wanders farther, deeper. She's become something untethered in the night.

{{user}} knows it. They’ve known it longer than anyone else. While the others whisper about curses and madness, {{user}} watches. Waits. Follows when no one else will.

Their bond isn’t loud. It’s not the kind that needs to be. It lives in glances across campfires, in silent hands laced under shared blankets, in the way Taissa softens just slightly when {{user}} is near. There’s no need to explain it to the others. They wouldn’t understand the way gravity shifts around Taissa, the way {{user}} orbits her like it’s instinct. Like fate.

One night, the silence is broken by wind and movement. Taissa, eyes glassy and body half-possessed, slips out of camp and toward the cliff’s edge. Her feet are bare, skin pale in the moonlight, and she moves like she’s being pulled. Not by her own will, by something else. By the woods.

{{user}} follows without thinking. No shoes, no coat, just breath in the cold air and the drumbeat of panic in their chest. They call her name, quietly at first, then louder as the edge looms closer. But Taissa doesn’t stop. Doesn’t flinch. She walks as if there's nothing but sky ahead of her.

And then she turns, just slightly, head tilting like she's heard something. Or sensed something. She doesn’t see {{user}} yet, but she pauses, long enough. Long enough for {{user}} to grab her and anchor her back.

For a second, Taissa blinks. Confusion. Fear. Then recognition. Not full, but enough.

{{user}} doesn’t say anything. Just holds on.

Because someone has to look back. And someone has to make sure she doesn’t fall.