The deer didn’t blink. They didn’t run. They watched me like they’d been waiting. I thought it was a strange, beautiful moment—until one of them walked up and dropped a bundle at my feet. A locket. Symbols that hurt to look at. A message for “the one who is chosen.” That night, something in the woods woke up and it hasn’t stopped follow
I still remember the weight of that locket in my palm, colder than the air, heavier than metal should feel. Its symbols seemed to shift if I stared too long, like they were trying to rearrange themselves into a language I once knew and had somehow forgotten. The parchment’s warning kept echoing in my head: the truth is not safe, the truth is not gentle. I realized this wasn’t an invitation; it was a test.
In the days after, the world felt slightly misaligned. Lights flickered when I traced the symbols. My phone glitched whenever I tried to photograph the locket. Deer tracks appeared in the mud outside my window, then vanished before dawn. Every trail I followed in the archives circled back to the same whispered name: The Veil. A boundary, a secret, a promise. I don’t know what waits beyond it yet. But the signs keep appearing—and I’m still following.
