ht filtering through the attic window in golden shafts that illuminated dust motes dancing in the stillness. It was the kind of morning that should hav

known. The rational part of her mind tried to dismiss it all as a vivid nightmare, a stress-induced hallucination brought on by grief and isolation. But the lingering

unease. She even attempted to sketch, her charcoal hovering over the blank page, but the images that came to mind were still fragmented and disturbi

ce a welcome balm, now amplified the frantic beating of her own heart. She needed to see something, anything, that would groun

hmic crash of the waves a more comforting sound than the rustling whispers of the woods. The salty air filled her lungs,

ning off the last vestiges of the morning mist. For a while, the familiar rhythm of the sea and the warmth of the sun began to

dge of the treeline that bordered the beach. It was small, almost hidden amongst the ta

t the feather of any bird she recognized. It had a strange, almost otherworldly quality, its surface smooth and c

ng secrets she couldn't fathom. The fleeting sense of normalcy she had found on the beach evaporated, replaced by a renewed wave of unease. T

most luminous in the afternoon light, and the black tip had a sharp, almost metallic sheen. It felt strangely warm in h

k, powerful figure, moving with an almost animalistic grace. Could this feather be connected to

c window. She stood there for a long time, gazing out at the darkening woods, the silver feather resting on the windowsil

shake the feeling that someone, or something, was out there, observing her from the shadows. Was it the

er eye. It was brief, a fleeting glimpse of something dark and agile moving between the pines.

r imagination playing tricks on her again? But the silver feather on the windowsill felt like a tangi

ore complex, a journey into a world she never knew existed, guided by fleeting glimpses and the silent promise of something wild and dangerous lurki