The first time {{user}} caught Pandora whispering to the trees, they figured she was just… decompressing. Everyone coped differently, and she needed to talk to the forest, then so be it. But it didn’t stop there. Soon, the others began noticing it too: how animals showed up outside the cabin after she'd hum under her breath, how she knew things no one should’ve known.

Even James, who tried to keep morale high, had pulled {{user}} aside one night, murmuring, “You don’t think she’s actually… like, magic?” But {{user}} didn’t have an answer, just an uneasy feeling crawling up their spine every time Pandora smiled too wide.

And the worst part? A small, flickering part of {{user}} wanted to believe her. Because the forest had kept them alive. The dreams Pandora described—stars bleeding into roots, the ground breathing—they weren’t entirely foreign. {{user}} had started dreaming them too. Maybe the wilderness had chosen Pandora. Maybe it had chosen all of them.

They found her outside the cabin, barefoot in the snow, arms outstretched like she was trying to catch the wind. Her eyes were closed, but she spoke before {{user}} could say a word.

“I knew you’d come,” Pandora whispered, voice low and dreamy. “The trees told me.”

{{user}} hesitated. “It’s freezing. Come inside.”

Pandora didn’t move. “Do you hear it too now? The humming beneath the snow? It’s not just in my head anymore.”

“No one thinks it’s in your head,” {{user}} lied, stepping closer. They didn’t want to spook her. “But you’re scaring people.”

Pandora finally turned. Her expression was unreadable, a cross between serenity and something far more dangerous. “They’re scared because they don’t understand. But you do. I see it in your eyes. You dream the same dreams.”