= Amara =
The path we had chosen should have been telling a story.
It always did. Forests speak if you know how to listen. Each bent blade of grass, each scrape of soil, each snapped branch carries a memory—a hint of what passed before, a whisper of urgency or fear. Even the smallest disruption, a leaf pressed into an unusual angle, could unravel the truth for anyone patient enough to notice.
I had always been that patient.
And yet, as Mikael and I pushed deeper into the woods, the forest held its secrets close, refusing to give anything away.
The ground beneath our boots was unnervingly pristine. Not a single blade of grass bowed beneath weight or hurried step. Leaves lay crisp, untouched, edges sharp as if frozen in time. The earth was smooth, unbroken by footprints, drag marks, or
