The rain had stopped hours ago, but the streets still glistened under the lamplight. Inelle walked home from violin practice, case tucked under her arm, the faint smell of resin and wood clinging to her clothes. Her teacher's praise still echoed in her mind—steady bowing, good tone—and for once, she felt light, almost proud.
Her shoes clicked against the pavement until the sound broke on a puddle stretched across the sidewalk. She barely glanced at it. Just water. Just another step.
Her foot sank.
Not into shallow rainwater, but into depth. Impossible depth. Cold swallowed her ankle, then her knee, then her whole body before she could even gasp. She clutched the violin case tighter, knuckles white, as the world tilted and collapsed.
There was no splash. No sound. Only falling.
Darkness pressed in from every side, a void without end. Colors flickered at the edges of her vision—shards of light, fragments of memory, the faint hum of strings as if her violin were playing somewhere far away. She tried to scream, but the void devoured her voice.
Then—impact.
Her eyes snapped open. She was lying on damp earth, breath ragged, clothes soaked. Above her stretched a canopy of trees, branches tangled against a sky she didn't recognize. Sunlight filtered through leaves, painting shifting patterns across the ground.
Inelle sat up, trembling. The violin case was still in her arms, slick with moisture but intact. Relief surged through her—this one familiar thing had survived the fall with her. She pressed it against her chest, as if the music inside could anchor her to reality.
The forest looked ordinary at first glance—oaks, birches, moss—but something was wrong. The air was too still, too heavy. A nearby shrub shimmered with glasslike leaves, refracting light into fractured rainbows. Vines hummed faintly, as though whispering secrets.
She tightened her grip on the violin case.
The puddle was gone. The street was gone.
And she was alone, in a forest that seemed to watch her.