She left before dawn, journal strapped to her chest, photograph tucked safely inside.

  The journey to the Forest of Whispers was longer than any she had taken. The air turned colder with each step, and the world around her grew quieter—eerily so, as if even the birds had chosen silence.

  She walked with confidence, fueled by the memory of the boy and the quiet hope the legend had stirred. She had no idea how she would find the door—or open it—but her heart beat with fierce determination. She had to try.

  Yet the moment her feet crossed into the forest, everything changed.

  A strange heaviness wrapped around her limbs. Her knees wobbled. The forest seemed to drink the strength from her bones. She paused, confused. She had come so far, brimming with energy—and now, she could barely move.

  Something here was draining her.

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  She rested beneath a crooked tree, her hands trembling as she reached for her journal. Inside, the feathers she’d collected shimmered faintly. She stared at them, uncertain—until now.

  One feather, silver-blue and soft as mist, pulsed with a faint glow.

  She pressed it gently to her heart.

  A warmth spread through her chest. Her legs steadied.

  It wasn’t full recovery—but it was enough.

  Feather in hand, she pressed on. The forest air shimmered, thick like syrup. Whispers drifted through the trees—unintelligible, but real. Once, she thought she saw his silhouette in the fog. When she blinked, it was gone.

  Hours passed. Her strength flickered. Each time she stumbled, she clutched a feather—and each time, it kept her moving.

  Finally, just as the sun dipped below the horizon, she found it.

  The tree from the photograph loomed before her, roots curled like claws. And behind it, between two great stones, hovered something impossible:

  A door.

  No wood. No hinges. Only light—soft and starlit—shimmering gold and silver, floating just above the ground.

  She stepped forward.

  Her breath caught.

  But when her fingers brushed the glowing edge—her knees gave out.

  Pain.

  Weakness.

  The door rejected her.

  Again and again, she tried.

  Again and again, she failed.

  Then it clicked.

  The feathers.

  Clutching them, she stepped back. No keyhole. No knob. But maybe they were never just clues. Maybe they were the key.

  She opened her journal, holding the feathers close.

  The door pulsed in response.

  A sound stirred behind her.

  Soft.

  Footsteps.

  She turned.

  No one was there.