And suddenly I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
CHAPTER 4
HARDIN
The Hollow breathes differently in the hours before dawn. The fog hasn’t burned off yet, clinging low and heavy around the tree trunks like a second skin, and the air smells sharp with wet moss and pine needles that’ve been steeping in dew.
I’ve been patrolling since moonset, tracking the western boundary where the wards run thin near the dry creekbed. There’s been too much movement lately—small things mostly, shadows without names, whispers caught in the brush—but I’ve learned not to wait for signs to become proof. By the time the Hollow screams, it’s already bleeding.
I’m circling back along the northern trail, not far from the Briar property, when I catch the scent: lavender, faint citrus, and something else I can’t place. Magic laced with child warmth.
My boots crunch softly on damp leaves as I move faster, angling toward the heart grove without meaning to, and that’s when I hear it. Laughter, light and high, threading between the trees where no child should be this early, especially not alone.
My jaw tightens. The forest should’ve warned her off. The fog should’ve confused her trail, turned her back. But the Hollow’s quiet, too quiet, like it’s watching instead of intervening. Whichmeans whatever’s pulling her in isn’t random. And that makes me move faster.
I find her on the old alder ring, standing at the border where the grove begins to curve inward like a spiral. Her boots are soaked, one of her socks is missing, and there’s mud up to her knees, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She’s got her arms out like wings, spinning in slow circles, face tilted to the mist-dappled sky.
“Mari,” I call, low but firm.
She stops. Turns. Smiles like she’s not afraid of anything. Like I belong here.
“Hi, Mister Hardin,” she says, like I’m just another neighbor out for a stroll. “The trees were singing. I think they wanted me to see the shiny place.”
I walk forward, careful not to cross the invisible line where the Hollow’s root magic grows thick. I’ve seen it tangle around things that didn’t belong, pull them under in silence. The girl shouldn’t be standing this close. The air hums around her, slow and strange, and the faint shimmer at her feet confirms what I suspected—she’s standing in a threadline. Ley-energy pooling beneath her like morning frost on stone.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I say, not unkindly, but with the weight I know how to use when words need to land hard. “This part of the forest isn’t for wandering.”
She frowns a little, not scared but thoughtful. “It didn’t feel bad. Just quiet. Like a dream that remembers you.”
I don’t answer. Instead, I hold out my hand. “Come. Now.”
She hesitates for one long heartbeat, then steps toward me, small fingers slipping into my palm with surprising trust. Her hand’s warm. Too warm. Like the magic hasn’t quite let go of her yet.
As soon as she crosses the line back into normal ground, the fog thickens, curling behind her like a curtain drawn closed. The shimmer fades. Whatever was watching recedes.
We walk in silence for a while. I don’t loosen my grip.
“You came fast,” she says after a minute, eyes peeking up at me. “Did you know I was there?”
“I patrol the woods. It’s my job to know.”
“Oh.” She kicks a rock with her bare foot and winces. “Do you have a kid?”
“No.”
“Do you want one?”
I don’t answer that. She seems to understand and doesn’t push it. She hums to herself, a tune I don’t recognize but feels familiar, something old and round like the kind sung in circles under full moons.
When we break through the tree line near the cottage, Krista is already outside, worry carved into every inch of her face. Her eyes lock onto Mari, then to me, and something sharp flickers behind the: panic, then relief, then the start of anger.
“Mari Grace Johnson,” she breathes, rushing forward. “Where in the world have you been?”
“I was just walking,” Mari says, sheepish now. “Mr. Hardin found me.”
Krista drops to her knees in the damp grass, pulling the girl into a hug so tight even I can feel the ache of it. She doesn’t cry, but the sound she makes is close enough.
“I told you not to leave the yard without me.”
