PROSE – FOWC & RDP

The dawn light was pale and useless—just a smear across the treetops, barely making it through the humidity. Everything was wet—the porch boards, the air, your skin, even your breath. It felt like you were breathing through cloth—heavy, damp cloth wrapped around your head.

You stood barefoot on the steps, a slice of watermelon dripping in your hand. It tasted like water and rot now, its sweetness gone. You spat into the grass and stared out at the treeline.

The forest didn’t move. Not even the leaves. It just watched.

You didn’t sleep. Not last night. Not really the night before. The dreams had stopped pretending to be dreams. They didn’t fade in the morning. They lingered in the corners of your vision and behind your ears, where the sound of whispering almost made sense.

You went out early. Needed to check the perimeter cameras. Needed to move. To feel the ground under your boots. That was the plan.

Instead, you wandered. The trail curved in a way it hadn’t before. You followed it. Past the markers. Past the thinning grass. And then it was just you and the dirt.

You nearly tripped over it. At first, just a glint of white in the soil. Bone, maybe. A rock. You crouched, brushed it off with the edge of your shirt. The shape took form fast.

A face.

Stone. Weathered. Cracked. Like it had been buried for years, forgotten. But the eye, just one, was too clean. Too precise. Like it had waited.

You stared at it for a long time. Tried to laugh. Couldn’t. You ran your fingers along the nose, the lips. Your hand trembled, but you didn’t stop.

It looked like you. Not exactly, but enough. The same line between the eyes. The same curve of the jaw. It had no expression, but somehow, it felt like it was judging you.

You left it there. Swore you would forget it.

But that night, you dreamed of breathing through stone. Heavy. Silent. Dreamed of dirt filling your mouth, your ears, your chest. Dreamed of a voice saying your name—not out loud, but from inside.

You woke up with soil under your fingernails.

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You told yourself: it’s a statue. Left behind. Forgotten.

You told yourself: it’s just heat sickness, a little sleep deprivation.

You told yourself: don’t go back.

But the forest doesn’t let you decide things like that. Not anymore.

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