You’re just a field tech. The northern range flagged root shifts and fungal blooms, so they sent you to check the perimeter. You’re not a ranger. Not a researcher. Just someone with a clipboard and a half-dead GPS.

The forest is quiet. Too quiet. No birds. No wind. Just the crunch of leaf litter and the occasional groan of settling bark.

Then something shifts.

Ahead, in the underbrush, something rises. Not fast. Not loud. Just… deliberate.

You freeze.

It’s tall. Bent. Covered in what looks like hair—long, white, tangled with leaves and soil. Beneath it, something moves. Limbs, maybe. Or roots. You can’t tell.

The air thickens. The ground feels damp. You smell rot. Flowers. Breath.

It doesn’t speak. It doesn’t blink.

It watches.

And the forest holds its breath.