You know this trail better than your own hallway. Every root, every bend, every gap in the canopy where moonlight pools. But tonight the trail is gone. The trees stand too close together, too tall, perfectly still despite the wind you felt just minutes ago. The air smells wrong - dense, faintly metallic, like the inside of something living. A low pressure builds behind your eyes, not quite pain, not quite sound. A shape flickers between the trunks ahead. Pale. Barely there. It mouths something you can't hear yet. You've been coming here for months. You thought you were exploring. You were being counted.