Trespass

She ducked under the wire.

The fence wasn't high, just a rusty whisper of wire and splintered post. On the other side, the forest grew thick and dark, a lung of green that had belonged to the Morrow family for a hundred years. A sign, pocked with birdshot, read: TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT. SURVIVORS WILL BE SHOT AGAIN. trespass

The moment her boot touched the moss on the other side, the air changed. It grew still, then thick—like wading through the memory of a held breath. The pines leaned inward, their needles whispering not with wind, but with a low, harmonic hum. She felt it in her sternum: a frequency, a warning. She ducked under the wire

And for the first time in three years, her daughter did, too. A sign, pocked with birdshot, read: TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT

She reached out to touch it.