The town didn't panic—not yet.
People whispered, of course. Rumors spread like spilled ink across damp paper. Some said the boy had run away. Others blamed the woods. A few older residents muttered about the Hollow Season , though no one could remember what that meant.
Eli knew better than to ignore it.
He watched Mira closely after that morning, waiting for her to draw something—anything —that might explain what was happening. But she didn't. Not at first.
She just stared out the window more often.
And tapped rhythmically against the cover of her sketchpad, like she was trying to signal someone on the other side.
Luka didn't sleep at all.
Every time he closed his eyes, he heard the same sound—a child's voice calling through a wall of static. Not loud. Not angry. Just lost.
When he finally opened his eyes again, there was chalk dust under his fingernails and a half-formed symbol scratched into his bedroom wall.
A spiral.
Just like the one carved into the door beneath the birch tree.
He took a photo of it with his phone and sent it to Mira without a message.
She replied within minutes.
A single drawing.
The boy from her earlier sketches, standing alone in front of the door. His hand was outstretched—but not toward the handle.
Toward them .
They met in the schoolyard before dawn.
Mira wore her coat even though it wasn't cold. Her eyes were sharp, alert, like she hadn't slept either.
Luka handed her the photo.
She studied it carefully, then nodded once.
Then she signed:
It's starting.
He swallowed hard. "What do you mean?"
She flipped open her sketchpad and began drawing.
This time, it wasn't just one boy.
It was three.
One stood at the edge of the forest. Another sat curled beneath the roots of the birch tree. The third hovered near the cliffside where the wind howled like a living thing.
All of them silent.
All of them watching.
She tapped the center of the page twice.
Then signed:
They're waiting.
"For what?" Luka asked quietly.
She hesitated.
Then drew another image beneath the first.
A girl standing alone, hands raised as if pushing something back.
Her mouth was closed.
But her eyes were screaming.
At school, the news spread faster than anyone expected.
Another child had gone missing.
This time, a girl—only eight years old. Her backpack was found at the edge of the woods, its contents scattered like breadcrumbs leading into the trees.
Mira stopped walking when she saw the photo in the local paper.
The girl's face was familiar.
Not because she knew her.
But because she'd drawn her last night.
Standing at the base of the birch tree.
Smiling.
That afternoon, Eli found her sitting on the fire escape behind the apartment, sketchpad open in her lap.
He didn't ask questions. He just sat beside her and waited.
After a long silence, she turned the pad around.
There were more drawings now.
Dozens.
All of them showing people who hadn't disappeared yet.
A man walking his dog near the lake. A woman locking up the library. A group of students laughing by the bus stop.
Each one marked with a small spiral in the corner.
Eli frowned. "You're saying they're next?"
Mira nodded once.
He exhaled sharply. "God, Mira…"
She looked at him, steady and calm.
Then she signed:
We can still help them.
He wanted to believe her.
But the weight of silence was getting heavier.
And somewhere deep in the forest, something was waking up.