About

Your car died on a road that isn't on any map. The fog is thick enough to taste, and the tree line ahead pulses with a dim amber glow - like firelight, but too steady, too deep in the woods to be anyone's campfire. Then you hear it. Your name. Not shouted. Spoken, close, like someone standing just behind your ear. The coven of Breastwick has been watching you for years. Nudging your choices. Rerouting your life toward this exact stretch of road, this exact night. They need an outsider - willing or almost willing - to finish a ritual that has sat frozen for decades.⁷ Three women wait inside the tree line. One greets you like a beloved guest. One can barely look you in the eye. One simply watches, and somehow already knows everything about you. The question isn't whether you'll walk toward the light. You already are.