Chapter 25

Edmund felt his mind pulled in two directions at once. One side leaned towards Agnes’s voice, firm and measured as she shaped the rite around him in words of authority. The other drifted toward the forest within his chest, unfurling now with slow, predatory grace. It stretched as if waking fully, testing the margins of his thoughts, his awareness, his sense of self.

The echo of that familiar voice, Dad?, lingered as if it had soaked into the cottage walls and was seeping back out.

Agnes did not pause. Her hands pressed more firmly at the sides of his head, fingertips digging into his temples just hard enough to hurt.

“Stay with my voice,” she said. “Nothing else is real.”

Edmund barely heard her. The forest advanced again, carrying a heat that dulled the edges of pain. It was a treacherous comfort. A seduction. It promised stillness. Rest. An end to aching.

It promised forgiveness.

Part of him wanted that. A part buried deep enough to make the shame burn in his throat.

Agnes’s chant rose, gathering force, threading the room together like a web. Malcolm and Will stood beyond the chalk circle, rigid and watchful. Neither moved. Neither dared.

The world flickered.

The floor dropped away.

And Edmund was somewhere else.

###

He stood in a garden.

His garden.

The grass wasn’t the right shade. It was too vivid. Too cleanly cut. Yet, the shape of it struck him like a blow. The low wooden fence. The crooked bench. The half‑broken bird feeder. He knew every inch. Every memory was pressed into the earth he stood upon.

A breeze stirred the leaves.

“Dad?”

Edmund turned.

The boy stood by the apple tree that had rarely borne fruit. He was small, wearing a green jacket zipped too high, with a woollen hat pulled over his hair and the tops of his ears. His cheeks were flushed from cold. His hands were tucked into the sleeves. His eyes…

Edmund’s attention stumbled.

They were perfect. Not hollow. Not the colour of bark. Not wrong.

The perfect shape and colour.

Agnes’s voice cut through the scene like a blade.

“It’s false. Don’t look at him.”

Edmund flinched. The garden rippled, as if water had been poured across it. The boy’s smile faltered.

“Dad, please.”

The forest’s response was immediate, bright and eager. He’s here. He’s here!

Edmund staggered back, his hands up.

“Stop it. Please. You’re not him.”

The boy’s face crumpled.

“Why won’t you talk to me?”

Edmund closed his eyes tightly.

“Because you’re dead.”

As he spoke it, the word tore through him like splintered bone. The garden went still, then it fractured.

The boy’s voice stretched, warping at the edges, the words elongating, stretching the syllables endlessly.

“You don’t have to hurt anymore.”

A root burst up from beneath the ground, thick and grey, wrapping around the child’s ankles. His expression didn’t change. He only watched Edmund, calm beyond any way he had ever been.

Another root curled around his waist. Another around his chest.

The forest flared in protest.

The garden tore apart.

###

Edmund was back in the cottage, his body bowing forward. His vision doubled around Agnes’s face. Her hands were still on his head, trembling now with effort.

“It’s trying to anchor him,” Will said.

“It’s using his memories as fertiliser, to help it grow. I need deeper cuts.” Agnes’s voice was strained.

She drew a narrow wooden blade from her belt, etched with symbols Edmund couldn’t bring into focus, and pressed it against his sternum.

The forest recoiled sharply. Edmund arched, a ragged sound tearing free.

“No! No! What are you…?”

Agnes didn’t falter.

“Second thread,” she said. “This is where it hides.”

She whispered a phrase.

The blade glowed.

And Edmund’s mind split wide open.

###

He was standing beside a graveside.

Rain soaking the ground. Wind clawed at the trees overhead, pulling the branches in a chaotic swell. The air was thick with grief.

A coffin hovered above a yawning pit darker than the one inside him.

He knew this moment, having lived it. And yet…

The faces of the people around him, fellow mourners, blurred. Their bodies flickered as if the forest had tried to rebuild them from memory and failed. Only one figure stood clearly.

The boy at the edge of the grave.

He was alive. Dry. Untouched by the storm. Edmund’s legs failed and he dropped to his knees.

“No.”

The boy tilted his head.

“You miss me.”

Edmund couldn’t answer. None could convey the emotion it would imply.

“You don’t have to,” the boy said. “Not anymore.”

Roots pushed up from the ground, long and slender, winding around the coffin and the boy alike. This time they moved gently. Almost carefully. They drew down towards the open pit, and he allowed it.

“Stop!” Edmund shouted. “Stop!“

The boy smiled. The same soft smile he’d had the day Edmund taught him to ride a bike.

The same smile the forest had stolen and inadequately tried to replicate.

“You can come too, Dad,” he said.

The forest asserted itself with a blinding, tidal force.

Say yes.

Edmund forced the words past the pressure.

“You’re not him.“

The roots froze. Every sound vanished. The boy’s face split down the centre as if beneath a woodsman’s axe.

The thing that was not and had never been Edmund’s son beneath grinned.

And surged.

###

Edmund convulsed in the cottage, almost knocking over the bowl of water. Agnes held him firm with one hand pushing down on his head, sweat streaming down her face. Malcolm leaned over the circle without stepping in, and seized Edmund’s shoulders to keep him upright.

“Agnes,” he shouted. “He’s going under”

“Do not pull him out,” Agnes snapped. “If we stop now, the Binding completes.”

The chalk lines burned dull red. The scent of damp earth thickened. The cottage groaned as roots dragged across soil outside. The forest had heard him.

It was coming.

Agnes leaned close.

“Say the word.”

Edmund gurgled.

“What word”

“Refuse,” she whispered.

The forest roared back in defiance. He tasted dirt. Sap. Loss. The boy’s voice sounded close, inside him.

“Come with me, Dad.”

“I can’t,” Edmund sobbed.

“Yes,” the forest murmured through the memory. “You can. It’s so easy. Just step inside.”

Agnes pressed the blade harder against his chest, still careful not to draw blood. Its glow grew brighter.

“Say it.”

The forest clawed at him, unravelling, pleading.

“Dad,” the voice broke. “Don’t leave me.”

Everything inside Edmund gave way.

“I REFUSE!” he cried.

The blade flashed.

Agnes collapsed backward, gasping.

The cottage shook.

Outside, something vast screamed. Trees split. Roots tore free. A wounded presence retreated into the shadows. The forest inside Edmund shattered, leaving nothing intact enough to cling to.

Silence followed.

Edmund collapsed to the floor, shaking, tears spilling freely now. His grief had been dragged raw. Agnes steadied herself against the table. Malcolm dropped beside Edmund, ignoring the circle. Will stared, pale and unmoving.

“The second thread is cut,” Agnes whispered.

Edmund pressed his face to the floorboards. It was not finished. Not yet. Not even close.

Agnes looked down at him, her eyes filled with both pity and fear.

“The forest will not forgive this,” she said.

Edmund lifted his head.

“It will come harder tomorrow.”