Gorge -

“You see,” the voice said, now coming from everywhere and nowhere, “I am old. Older than the hills. I have seen continents drift and seas drain. But I have no eyes. You children bring me pictures. Memories. Your little lives—so bright, so brief. They are my only light. Your brother had a lovely one about a birthday cake with a blue dog on it. I am savoring it.”

Lena didn't believe in grief. She believed in rope, a headlamp, and the fierce, burning love of an older sibling. “You see,” the voice said, now coming from

They climbed. The rocks cut Lena’s palms. Theo scrambled behind her, clumsy but alive. When they finally tumbled out onto the grassy lip of the gorge, the afternoon sun was so bright it hurt. But I have no eyes

“You want a story?” she shouted into the humming dark. “Then listen to mine.” Your little lives—so bright, so brief

A low, agonized groan rippled through the gorge. The hum became a screech, then a whimper, then a sigh—not of grief, but of a full stomach forced to eat something bitter.

The gorge was a scar on the land, a deep, jagged cut through the emerald hills that surrounded the village of Oakhaven. Generations of locals had told their children not to go near it. They spoke of strange lights flickering in its depths at midnight, of a wind that seemed to whisper names it had no right to know.