The dawn came gray and cold.
A soft mist rolled over the clearing, shrouding everything in silver. The birds didn't sing. The air smelled of wet earth and smoke, and for a long while, the only sound was the distant creak of branches returning to stillness.
Sheriff Dawes was the first to move. His head throbbed, his ears still ringing from the blast of light that had consumed the forest hours earlier. He blinked hard, forcing his vision to focus — and then he saw them.
Children.
Dozens of them, lying in the mud, scattered like fallen leaves. Motionless. But alive.
"Robert!" the sheriff called out, his voice hoarse. "Robert, get up!"
Robert stirred nearby, dragging himself up to his knees. His hands were shaking, his face streaked with mud and tears. He turned his head slowly toward the sheriff's voice, confusion and exhaustion mixing in his eyes.
"Will…" he whispered, but his son was gone — vanished into the fog.
"Later," the sheriff said firmly, grabbing his arm. "Help me with the others. They're still breathing."
Together, the two men began moving through the clearing. One by one, they checked the children — small pulses, shallow breaths, clammy skin. None of them woke. They looked peaceful, but wrong. Their eyes flickered faintly beneath closed lids, as though trapped inside some dream too deep to surface from.
The sheriff wiped his brow, his hands trembling. "They're alive, but not… awake."
Robert crouched beside a small boy with a tear in his sleeve. He brushed dirt from the child's cheek, whispering, "It's over now. You're safe."
But even as he said it, the words felt empty.
The ground beneath them no longer pulsed with that eerie light, yet the air carried a residue — like something had been burned into it that couldn't be washed away. The forest was quiet, but it wasn't peace. It was silence with teeth.
By the time they reached the edge of the clearing, the sun had climbed higher. They could finally see the path back to town. The sheriff tore strips of cloth from his jacket, wrapping small wounds, checking pulses again.
He looked up at Robert, eyes hollow. "We'll carry them back. Get the doctor, the priest — whoever's left that can help."
Robert nodded numbly. He glanced back at the clearing one last time. The pit was gone. The earth was smooth again, as if it had never opened at all.
But something in him knew better. The Hollow didn't erase itself — it covered its tracks.
The two men carried the children out, one after another. It took hours. The town met them at the road — mothers crying, fathers shouting, the priest clutching his rosary with shaking hands.
"The children," one of the women gasped. "Are they…?"
"They're alive," the sheriff said. "But they're not waking up."
The crowd fell silent. The only sound was the wind through the pines and the distant toll of the church bell.
Robert stood apart, his eyes scanning the faces of the rescued children — searching, hoping, breaking. Will wasn't among them.
The sheriff walked over slowly, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder. "We'll find him," he said quietly. "Whatever's happened… we'll find him."
Robert didn't answer. His gaze drifted toward the treeline, where the fog lingered, thicker than before. He could almost hear it whisper — a faint echo only he seemed to notice.
> "The vessel breathes."
His stomach turned cold. He looked back at the town — at the people rejoicing, the children being carried into the doctor's home — and realized the truth. The Hollow had given them back, but it hadn't let them go.
_____________________________
The town's noise faded behind him. The crying, the prayers, the doctor's hurried footsteps — all of it blurred into the soft hum of wind and the crunch of gravel beneath his boots.
Robert walked home alone.
The sky had turned a deep orange by the time he reached his porch. The light spilled through the windows, glinting off the empty glass of water on the table — the same one Will had left behind that morning. It was still half full. Still waiting.
He closed the door slowly and leaned against it, his whole body shaking. For a long while, he said nothing. Then the silence cracked.
A sob broke out of him, low and raw. It echoed through the house, bouncing off the walls that had once held laughter. His knees gave out, and he sank to the floor, burying his face in his hands.
"I should've stopped it," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I should've protected you."
The words came again and again, spilling out between gasps. He slammed his fist against the wooden floor, the pain grounding him only for a moment. "You were just a boy," he rasped. "You didn't deserve this."
His gaze lifted toward the old family photo above the fireplace — Will, smiling awkwardly beside his mother. That photo used to bring him comfort. Now it burned.
He stood unsteadily and walked toward it. His fingers hovered just short of the frame. "You looked just like her when you smiled," he murmured. "She would've known what to do. She always did."
The house creaked as if answering him. The wind rattled the window, and the lamp beside him flickered.
Robert froze.
It was faint — a whisper, distant but familiar. A voice. He strained to listen, his heart pounding.
> "Robert…"
He turned sharply toward the hallway, flashlight in hand. The beam swept across empty walls and shadows that seemed too deep. Nothing. Just the sound of his own breath.
Then came another whisper — not Will's this time, but lower, strained.
> "Help me…"
His blood ran cold. He knew that voice.
Tom.
Robert's eyes widened. He stumbled back toward the door, fumbling for his coat. He'd almost forgotten — Tom was still missing.
He cursed under his breath. The sheriff had been too focused on the children. They hadn't gone back for Tom's house… hadn't checked the woods where he'd vanished.
Robert swallowed hard, the tears drying on his face. "No," he whispered. "Not again."
He grabbed the lantern from the table, the same one he'd used the night they searched for Ethan, and stepped out into the cold. The air bit at his skin, the forest looming ahead like an open wound.
The world was quiet now, too quiet. But somewhere deep in that silence, he could still hear it — a faint, broken plea carried on the wind.
> "Robert… please…"
He turned toward the sound, his jaw tight, grief hardening into resolve. "Hold on, Tom," he muttered. "I'm coming."
And as he disappeared into the mist, the door behind him creaked open — though no one had touched it.