Every morning, before the sun climbed over the jagged hills, a woman named Elara would walk through the forest near her cottage. She had lived there for years, alone and quiet, but she never noticed the symbols until one autumn day when the wind carried a peculiar scent—like old parchment and damp earth. The symbols were etched into the bark of an ancient oak tree, their lines twisting in a way that made her head ache just to look at them. They weren’t natural, nor did they resemble any language she had ever seen. Some looked like spirals, others like broken chains. She traced one with her fingertip, and the moment her skin touched it, a cold shiver ran up her spine. She didn’t tell anyone. She was used to solitude, and the forest had always been her sanctuary. But the symbols began to appear more frequently. On trees, on stones, even on the wooden beams of her house. They seemed to shift slightly when she wasn’t looking, as if they were alive in some strange, silent way. One evening, as she sat by the fire, she pulled out an old notebook from a drawer. It was filled with sketches of things she had seen in the woods—birds, animals, patterns in the moss. She tried to copy the symbols, but no matter how carefully she drew them, they never quite matched what she saw. The lines felt wrong, like they were meant to be read in a different order, or perhaps in a different direction. Days turned into weeks. The symbols grew more intricate, forming strange shapes that resembled constellations or forgotten maps. Elara began to feel watched, not by eyes, but by something else—something that lingered at the edge of her vision, vanishing whenever she turned to look. She started leaving small offerings at the base of the oak: a piece of bread, a candle, a vial of water. She hoped it might appease whatever force was behind the symbols. But the next morning, the offerings were gone, and new symbols had appeared, deeper into the trunk. One night, she dreamed of a place she had never seen—a vast, empty plain under a sky of shifting colors. In the distance, a figure stood, its form indistinct, but it raised an arm as if pointing toward the forest. When she woke, her hands were covered in ink, and the symbols on her walls had changed again. Elara became obsessed. She spent hours studying the markings, trying to decipher their meaning. She found fragments of old books in the attic, filled with references to "the Silent Script" and "the Keepers of the Veil." The texts spoke of a hidden world, a place where time moved differently and reality was malleable. They warned of those who sought knowledge too deep, who were never seen again. Still, she couldn’t stop. She followed the symbols through the forest, tracing their paths until they led her to a clearing she had never noticed before. In the center stood a stone archway, half-buried in roots and ivy. The air around it shimmered, as though the space itself was breathing. She reached out, fingers trembling, and touched the stone. A pulse of energy surged through her, and for a moment, the world around her flickered—trees became faces, shadows moved without light, and the ground beneath her feet seemed to ripple like water. Then, silence. The clearing was empty. The archway was gone. The symbols had vanished, leaving only faint impressions on the soil. Elara returned home, exhausted and confused. That night, she fell into a deep sleep, and in her dream, she saw the same figure from before, now standing beside her. It didn’t speak, but it pointed to the window. When she opened it, she saw the forest, but it was different—taller, darker, and full of glowing eyes watching her from the trees. She woke with a start, heart pounding. The symbols were back, now surrounding her entire cottage. They pulsed softly, as if waiting. And in the silence between heartbeats, she wondered if she had truly left the forest behind—or if it had simply waited for her to return.