The photo trembles in my hands. It’s her—Clara—standing beneath the crooked oak at the forest’s edge, the one she always said gave her chills. Her hair is longer, tangled with leaves, and she’s wearing the blue dress from our anniversary dinner. The date stamp says yesterday. But that’s impossible. I’ve been checking every camera, every feed, every damn shadow for three months. And now this arrives in a plain envelope, no return address, slipped under the door while Mara slept.

I should call the sheriff. I know I should. But Lorne closed the case two weeks ago. Said she probably ran off, couldn’t handle motherhood, the usual script. He didn’t see the way she looked at Mara. Didn’t hear her laugh.

My boots are laced before I think. The forest looms beyond the yard, fog curling between the trunks like breath. I grab the flashlight, the knife from the kitchen drawer, and step into the cold.

Halfway down the trail, I find the first marker—a red ribbon tied to a branch. Ours. From our hikes together. Then another. And another. Leading deeper.

My pulse hammers. This is a trap. Or a test. Or a plea.

At the clearing, the ground dips unnaturally, roots spiraling inward like a wound. Something glints below—a silver locket. Hers. I reach for it.

Then I hear it: a child’s voice. Singing.

Mara’s voice.

But I left her asleep at home.