In the quiet town of Elmsworth, where the streets were lined with ancient oaks and the air always carried the scent of damp earth, there was a legend that few dared to speak of. It was said that if you walked the path behind the old mill at exactly 3:03 a.m., you would hear a voice calling your name. No one knew who it belonged to, but those who claimed to have heard it never spoke again. Lila had always been curious about such stories. She was a college student visiting her grandmother for the summer, and the old tales of Elmsworth fascinated her. Her grandmother, a woman with a knowing smile and eyes that seemed to hold secrets, warned her not to go near the mill after dark. "Some things," she said, "are meant to stay in the past." But Lila couldn't resist. One night, under the cover of a full moon, she slipped out of her grandmother's house and made her way toward the mill. The path was overgrown, the stones worn smooth by time. As she stepped onto the trail, the air grew colder, and the trees seemed to lean closer, their branches whispering like voices in the wind. At 3:03 a.m., as the clock tower chimed, she heard it—a soft, melodic voice, calling her name. It wasn't loud, but it was clear, like a memory stirring from deep within. She turned, expecting to see someone, but the path was empty. The voice called again, this time more urgently, and she felt a strange pull, as if the ground itself was guiding her forward. She followed the sound deeper into the woods, the trees growing taller and darker, their shadows stretching like fingers across the path. Then, just beyond a thicket of brambles, she saw it—a small clearing, illuminated by a pale light that seemed to come from nowhere. In the center stood a figure, cloaked in a long, tattered coat, its face obscured by a hood. The voice stopped. The figure turned slowly, and Lila felt her breath catch. It was her. Or at least, it looked like her. The same dark hair, the same green eyes. But something was wrong—her reflection smiled, but it didn’t move its lips. "Who are you?" Lila whispered, her voice trembling. The figure tilted its head, then raised a hand. A single feather drifted from its palm, landing softly on the ground. Lila reached down to pick it up, but as her fingers touched the feather, a cold shiver ran through her. The world around her flickered, and for a moment, she saw a different version of herself—older, tired, standing in the same spot, surrounded by the same trees, but with a look of despair in her eyes. When she blinked, the vision was gone. The figure was still there, watching her. Then, without a word, it turned and disappeared into the darkness, leaving only the feather in her hand. Lila ran back to her grandmother’s house, heart pounding, but when she arrived, the door was locked. Her grandmother was nowhere to be found. The house was silent, except for the sound of her own breathing. She sat on the porch, clutching the feather, and stared at the woods, wondering if she had truly seen something—or if it had been a dream. Days passed, and Lila tried to forget what had happened. But the feather remained, tucked safely in her journal. She began to notice odd things—strange symbols etched into the bark of trees, whispers in the wind, and a feeling that she was being watched. Even her grandmother, when she finally returned, seemed different, as if she had aged years in a single night. One evening, as Lila sat alone in the kitchen, she opened her journal and found a new entry written in her own handwriting: "It's not me. It's waiting." The words sent a chill through her. She closed the book, but the feeling of being watched didn’t fade. The next morning, she decided to return to the clearing. This time, she brought a flashlight and a notebook. The path was the same, but the air felt heavier, as if the forest itself was holding its breath. When she reached the clearing, the feather was gone, and the ground was covered in fresh footprints leading away from the spot where the figure had stood. Lila followed them, deeper into the woods, until she came upon a small, forgotten grave. The stone was cracked, the name barely legible. She knelt and brushed away the moss, revealing a name she recognized—her own. She stood frozen, the weight of the moment pressing down on her. The story of the mill, the voice, the mirror image—it all made sense now. But why? What had she done? And more importantly, who had she become? As she turned to leave, the wind picked up, carrying with it a single, familiar voice. "You're not ready yet," it whispered, and the trees swayed as if in agreement. Lila ran, but the path behind her twisted and changed, leading her in circles. The woods had become a maze, and she was no longer sure which way was out. And somewhere, in the depths of the forest, the figure waited, watching, listening, and waiting for the next call.