Girls Scouts

The forest stands in its ancient silence, but today, that silence is not a promise of peace. Sunlight spills through the canopy like golden blades, slicing the shadows into restless, fractured shapes. It offers no refuge—its glow merely reveals things that should remain hidden. The camp hums with life, unaware, delicate as a lake’s surface before a storm. The girls laugh, talk, their movements carrying the rhythm of carefree existence. The scent of earth and pine saturates the air, pulsing with the warmth of day. They do not notice the shift—the weight pressing into the quiet, the way the world around them holds its breath. Then, everything shatters like torn fabric. From the depths of the forest, a figure emerges. Black. Formless, yet unmistakable. It does not charge, does not thrash in wild attack—it simply is. Its presence intrudes upon reality, bends it, steals the air. The first sentinels freeze, like puppets with their strings severed. They do not move. They do not speak. Time falters, hesitates, unsure of how to proceed. Then, movement—wild, instinctive. Some of the girls break into a run, but there is no salvation in their escape. Their cries do not pierce through the fabric of existence; they merely dissolve into it, leaving nothing behind. Help? It will not come. Perhaps it never existed at all. Perhaps it was only an illusion—a comforting lie that the world is not as cruel as it truly is. The daylight does not protect them—it condemns them. The brightness only sharpens every detail of their downfall, refuses to let their terror hide, does not soften the edges. In this relentless clarity, defeat is undeniable. The sun does not pity, does not halt the course of events. It watches. It does not blink. And the forest? The forest does not ask. Does not remember. When the silence finally returns to its rightful place, nothing remains but the wind in the leaves. As if nothing ever happened.

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