Tobias reaches for the folded note with numb fingers. The paper is stiff and slightly damp — old, somehow. He unfolds it carefully in the lantern's amber circle. The handwriting is tiny, almost impossibly so, scratched in ink that shimmers faintly green at the edges. It says: follow the path to the hollow tree, leave before first light, do not whistle. Below the words sits a small drawing: a door no bigger than a fist, set into the base of a trunk. Tobias stares for a long moment. The lantern sways, shadows shifting through the pines. The narrow path curves away into darkness. He turns the note over. On the back, in a different, shakier hand, someone has added a single word — RUN. His breath catches. The forest around him is very, very still.