Chapter 32

The morning after the fourth thread broke, Black Thickett woke as if nothing had happened.

It was the first thing Edmund noticed as he stepped out of Agnes’ cottage. The village carried on with its small routines, untouched by the horrors that had clawed at its walls the night before. Doors opened. Radios played. A woman laughed as her dog tugged at its lead. Ordinary morning sounds drifted across the green, carefully placed back where they belonged like pieces on a chess board, mid game.

Nothing hinted at roots tearing through ceilings or voices whispering through plaster.

Malcolm walked with him towards the Black Swann. Will followed a few steps behind, already complaining about the cold. It was all normal. Utterly, oddly normal.

Inside the pub, the fire glowed gently. The repairs were complete. No scars marked the walls and Edmund barely recognised the room that had once been broken. He took a seat near the hearth. Malcolm brought him coffee. Edmund lifted the mug and waited for the tremor that didn’t come. He drank, the warmth settling in his chest, the only occupant.

For a moment, it was enough.

Then the door opened behind him. It was only slightly, just enough for cold air to slip in. No one entered. Malcolm frowned and crossed to check the latch.

“Must be loose,” he muttered, though his eyes strayed briefly toward the trees beyond the green.

Edmund kept his gaze on the mug.

The village continued its gentle hum. Plates clattered. Voices overlapped. Boots crunched on gravel. It was normal, yet the hairs along Edmund’s arms lifted.

A sound carried through the open window. Small, like something shifting its weight in undergrowth. He turned his head, only a fraction, seeing without directly looking. The forest stood at the far edge of the green. It was still. Dark. Unmoving.

For the briefest instant, he felt it. Not a pull or a whisper. Attention. Cold and steady, as if the forest had leaned forwards, just enough to remember him. And remind him.

Malcolm returned to the table.

“All right?”

“Yes,” Edmund said, nodding a little too emphatically.

Still, his gaze drifted back to the treeline. As he watched, a single leaf released from a branch, the distance not diminishing the visibility. It fell straight down, slow and perfectly vertical.

There was no wind. No sudden movement of the bough.

Just the fall.

Edmund went very still. Malcolm didn’t notice. The village carried on around them, untroubled. Edmund looked away at last, forcing himself to raise the mug again. His hand remained steady. Life in Black Thickett had returned to its usual, oblivious rhythm.

Beyond the window, at the shadowed edge where the trees began, something moved. It was only a slight shift, but enough for Edmund to understand one thing with quiet certainty.

The forest had stepped back.

But it had not stepped away.