Standing in the clearing where our tent had been, my head swirled with confusion. The trees felt too close, and the path we had taken to the campsite seemed to have vanished. The mysterious tattoo on my wrist tingled again, its spiral design seeming more vivid, subtly shifting as if it had gained depth. The blue and green dots, which had first seemed like mere decorations, now pulsed with a life of their own, responding to our surroundings in ways I was only beginning to notice. Ana stood beside me, clutching her sketchbook, her eyes wide but quiet as she scanned the surroundings.

I thought, We came this way, didn’t we? As I tried to retrace our steps from yesterday, I recalled the sun had been at our backs when we entered the clearing in the evening, and we had pitched the tent facing the direction we had entered. Today, we were supposed to meet up with Alex and Sam, two friends from a foraging course I took at school. With no trail in sight, I decided the best course of action was to follow the sun, keeping it at our back as we started our hike out.

But as soon as we set off, I couldn't help but laugh internally. How could I worry about getting lost when we were already completely lost? My mind raced, replaying the bizarre events of the night: the tent changing color, our hair growing impossibly long overnight, and the eerie forest closing in on us. Were we trapped in some enchanted world? Or had we, like Rip Van Winkle, slept for years without realizing it?

As we trekked through the unfamiliar terrain, I kept my eyes peeled for signs of a trail. But there were none. The forest floor was cluttered with roots and debris, and the plants looked strange—some familiar, some out of place, and others entirely foreign. I couldn't shake the feeling that we weren’t in the same forest as the day before, but in a version of it that was... altered.

After a few hours of walking with no sign of the path or familiar landmarks, I decided it was time for a quick break. I pulled out a trail bar and handed one to Ana. She took it wordlessly, her eyes still scanning the forest as she nibbled on the snack. I ate mine quickly, the familiar taste grounding me a little. As we chewed in silence, I checked our water supply, feeling an uneasy sense of urgency. It should have lasted for a few days if we were only camping, but with no clear path out, I couldn't shake the feeling that it might not be enough. We’d have to make sure we foraged along the way too, just in case.

We rested only briefly before pressing on. With no path to follow, we had little choice but to trust the sun to guide us.

By midday, fatigue had begun to set in. We hadn’t encountered a single human landmark, not even the well-worn trail we had taken yesterday. The forest around us felt too alive, too ancient, and too alien. Then, around a corner, we spotted something familiar: a giant tree with a fist-shaped protrusion jutting out of its trunk. It was the same landmark we had passed the day before—or was it? I squinted at it. It looked newer, fresher somehow, as if it had been untouched for centuries.

“It’s a good sign,” I said aloud, breaking the silence. The words felt strange on my lips, especially in the quiet of the forest. I hadn’t spoken aloud since we’d started the trip, preferring to communicate with Ana through sign language. Ana visibly flinched, her head snapping toward me, startled by the sound of my voice.

I quickly signed to Ana, “Sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

As I watched her reaction, I realized just how much my voice had affected her. Ana had always been sensitive to sound, and I should have known better than to break the quiet without warning. It was a reminder of how important our silent communication was for her sense of comfort.

Ana, still wide-eyed, offered a small smile and signed back, “It’s okay, Mommy.”

I continued, my hands moving fluidly as I signed, “We’ll camp here for the night. The tree looks different, but it’s a landmark. We can trust that, for now.”

Ana nodded, visibly more relaxed now that we had returned to our usual mode of communication. We set up camp under the shelter of the massive tree. The “fist,” a thick, knotted part of the tree, jutted out high above us, creating a natural overhang. It was sturdy and oddly comforting, as though the tree itself was offering some form of protection. I felt a strange connection to it, though I couldn't say why. I pushed the thought aside as I cleared a small space for the campfire, lining the area with stones to keep it contained.

Even though the weather seemed calm, my instincts were telling me not to trust it. This wasn’t the same forest we had entered yesterday. The trees, the air, the very ground beneath us—it all felt alive in a way that was beyond the natural world. The bizarre changes from the night before—the tent’s color, our hair, the tattoos—none of it made sense, but there was no denying the reality of it.

Ana’s small hands quickly found her sketchbook, and she set up her camp chair a short distance from the fire, where she could focus on drawing the fist-shaped tree while still staying within sight of me. Now completely focused, she opened her sketchbook, flipping through the pages until she found a blank one. She settled into her chair, her eyes flicking between the tree and her paper, her brow furrowed in concentration. The scratch of her pencil on the page was the only sound for a moment, a steady rhythm that helped calm my nerves as I worked on building the fire.

I noticed something different as Ana sketched. The lines she drew were more precise, her focus sharper. It wasn't a drastic change, but there was a subtle confidence in her movements that hadn't been there before. I watched her for a moment longer, wondering if this strange forest was affecting her in a way I couldn't yet understand.

The first sparks took, and I watched as a small flame flickered to life. I fed it with twigs and dried leaves, watching it grow stronger before adding larger logs. The warmth from the fire spread through the clearing, but despite the heat, I felt a chill deep inside—a persistent sense that something was off.

As the fire crackled and I began to prepare our midday meal, my thoughts wandered back to the events of the day. Every rustle in the forest felt deliberate, as if each leaf's movement was timed and calculated. It wasn't just the sound; it was the way it matched our steps, the way the branches swayed as if in response to our presence—like the trees themselves were watching and responding. The tattoos on our wrists weighed on my mind, the strange changes in our surroundings gnawing at my sense of reality. How had our hair grown so long in just one night? What had happened to us in this forest? The shadows seemed to stretch too far, and the air around us was thick with something unseen—an invisible presence, perhaps.

I glanced at Ana again. She was engrossed in her drawing, but I noticed how she occasionally paused, her hands hovering over the paper, as if sensing something she couldn’t quite understand. I wondered if Ana felt the same unease, though she never said it aloud—or signed it. Still, I could see it in the subtle tension in her posture.

I caught her eye and signed, “Ana, how’s your drawing coming along?”

Ana paused her sketching to flash a quick smile. She signed back, “It’s okay, Mommy,” and returned to her work, though the unease still lingered in her eyes.

As I began thinking about lunch, I reached for our supplies. A quiet certainty came over me about what food would help ease our tension. I found myself reaching for the wild mushrooms and onions we had foraged. There were other options, but wild mushroom risotto seemed right. I went with it, trusting my instincts without overthinking. The decision felt natural, as if the forest itself was guiding me.

As the olive oil heated in the skillet, the soft glow of the fire flickered around us, casting long shadows on the ground. I added the mushrooms, garlic, and onions, their rich aromas filling the air as they began to sizzle. It was a comforting scent, one that brought back memories of cooking in my small kitchen at home. The earthy smell of the mushrooms mingled with the sweetness of the onions, and I hoped that this meal would bring us some much-needed comfort.

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I glanced over at Ana, who was still lost in her drawing. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, but I could see the unease lingering in her eyes, the same unease that had been there all day. I stirred the rice into the pan, letting it absorb the flavors, and as I did, I found myself pouring my love and hope into the meal. I wanted this risotto to do more than just fill our stomachs—I wanted it to soothe us, to ease the tension that had been growing since we woke this morning.

The rice toasted lightly in the olive oil, and I added the vegetable broth in stages, watching the grains swell and soften. The act of cooking became almost meditative, each stir of the spoon a quiet promise that everything would be okay. The forest might be strange and unsettling, but in this small moment, I could control something. I could create something warm and nourishing for us.

As the risotto thickened, I finished it with Parmesan and herbs, the final touch to a meal that now felt like more than just food. The scent of melted cheese and herbs wrapped around me, and I breathed it in, feeling a little lighter. The hope that this meal would bring some peace to Ana, even if just for a while, was all I could hold onto as the fire crackled softly beside us.

As I finished preparing our small meal, I prepared two bowls and had Ana come join me. We sat by the fire in comfortable silence, eating slowly. The sounds of the forest seemed to shift subtly—Ana tilted her head slightly, as if she could hear something I couldn't. The rustling continued, and the birdsong was there but felt distant, almost like the forest was speaking in hushed tones.

After we finished eating, Ana returned to her drawing. I stood and stretched, brushing the dirt from my pants, feeling the need to move and do something. “I’m going to check the area for water,” I signed to her.

Ana nodded, her attention focused back on the tree.

As I started walking around the area, my wrist itched, and I glanced down at the tattoo that had appeared overnight. The spiral design was subtle, almost beautiful, with its clean lines and the two small dots—one blue, one green—that moved in a way I hadn’t quite figured out yet. Something about them seemed… alive, as if they were responding to me. I noticed the blue dot shifting slightly as I moved, but I couldn't yet determine what it was connected to.

I lifted my wrist closer to my face, studying the dots more carefully. The blue dot was near the center of the spiral, while the green one hovered near the outer ring. As I shifted my wrist, I noticed something strange: the dots moved, but not randomly. The blue dot shifted slightly as I moved around the camp, but I couldn't quite tell what it was aligning with. I noticed that it seemed to shift more dramatically when I moved closer to Ana, but I still wasn't sure.

The green dot, on the other hand, pointed steadily in one direction. I needed to test my theory. Slowly, I turned in a complete circle, keeping my eyes fixed on the green dot. It never wavered, always pointing in the same direction, no matter where I turned. If this was a guide, then perhaps it was trying to help us out of this enchanted forest—or deeper into it. A shiver ran down my spine.

I moved away from the camp, my eyes flicking between the surrounding trees and my wrist. The blue dot seemed to drift slightly, almost as if it was reacting to my movement. I turned, and it shifted again. At first, I couldn't quite understand its behavior. The green dot, however, remained stubbornly aligned with whatever point it had chosen. I walked a short distance, scanning the forest floor for anything useful. The foraging course I had taken had taught me well, and I instinctively searched for edible plants or signs of nearby water.

I took a deep breath, the chill in the air sharp against my skin. I started to notice a pattern—the further I moved from the camp, the more the blue dot seemed to recede. When I turned back, it moved inward again, almost as if it was being drawn toward something. As I approached Ana, it shifted more dramatically, and a realization began to take shape, though I wasn't fully sure yet.

I crouched down near a cluster of fiddlehead ferns, examining them closely. They were familiar enough—safe to eat—but something still felt off. These were Ostrich ferns, but seeing fiddlehead ferns also weren't typically found in this part of the forest, at least not in such abundance, and especially not at this time of year. Their presence here seemed strange, almost as if the forest itself was altering in response to something. My attention was split, the mystery of the dots pulling at my thoughts as I pocketed a few foraged greens. As I stood, I saw it again—a faint green light at the edge of my vision. It was the same light I’d seen that morning when we first noticed the changes in the forest. I froze, my heart skipping a beat.

Slowly, I shifted my gaze, trying not to focus on the light directly. It hovered in my peripheral vision, like a flicker of movement just beyond my sight. My mind raced back to those pictures where you had to unfocus your eyes to see the hidden image, like magic eye illusions. It reminded me of a book I'd read about a technique to focus on things indirectly, to let them reveal themselves naturally. I relaxed my eyes, allowing the light to linger at the edge of my sight without chasing it.

Then, just as before, the light sharpened into something more tangible—a faint, translucent screen, hovering in the air before me. I gasped softly, stepping back, but the screen remained, its presence undeniable. Tabs lined the top, though most were greyed out, inaccessible. The open tab displayed something that looked like a quest log, filled with text I couldn’t fully process yet. I reached out instinctively, but my hand passed through the screen like it wasn’t there.

I turned back toward the camp, the screen flickering for a moment, and then it vanished. My heart raced. What was this? I glanced back at Ana, who was still sitting by the fire, oblivious to what I was seeing.

My heart raced as the faint green light flickered once more at the edge of my vision. The screen reappeared, hovering before me, its translucent text clearer than before. My eyes were immediately drawn to a line in the quest log:

Meet Mundi in Tyra – A small green dot hovered next to it, glowing softly, as if waiting for me to acknowledge it.

That was it—there were no other quests listed. No mention of the disappearing forest or the tattoos, just this cryptic instruction to meet Mundi in Tyra. Mundi… my old friend from the game. But how could this be real?

I took a step back toward the camp, and as soon as my attention drifted from the screen, it flickered and vanished into the air. A pang of frustration hit me. What was I supposed to do with this cryptic message, and why now?

I glanced at Ana, still absorbed in her drawing. I will have her see if she can pull up a screen.

I raised my wrist again and watched it carefully. No matter where I turned, the blue dot always aligned itself toward Ana, while the green dot remained fixed, pointing forward, as though marking a specific direction in this strange forest.

The further I moved from Ana, the more the blue dot drifted outward, pulling to the edge of the spiral. When I moved closer to her, it shifted back toward the center, following her like a compass. I frowned, trying to make sense of it.

I turned back toward the trees, focusing on the strange green light again. The screen flickered back into view, displaying the quest log once more. As long as I focused on it, it remained solid, hovering in the air with its cryptic message.

Meet Mundi in Tyra.

This wasn’t a game, was it? The dots, the screens—everything was connected somehow. But what did it mean? More questions then answers.

I took a deep breath and let my focus slip. As expected, the screen faded once more, leaving me with only my racing thoughts and the weight of the mysterious tattoo on my wrist.

After a while, I got Ana’s attention, signing, “We will stay here for another day and then we’ll head in the direction of the sun. If we don’t find the trail, we’ll keep foraging and looking for water. We’ll figure this out.”

Ana nodded, her face showing quiet determination. She trusted her mother, even though the world around us had become strange and unpredictable. I felt a swell of pride, knowing how resilient Ana was, even in the face of the unknown.

The sky was clear above us, soft hues of pink and orange just beginning to fade into the cooler blues of twilight. The fire crackled softly in the growing twilight, casting flickering shadows that danced along the trees. I watched Ana as she sketched, her small frame hunched over the paper, her pencil moving in steady strokes. She was always so focused when she drew, her entire world narrowing down to the lines and shapes on the page. It was something I admired in her—her ability to shut everything out and lose herself in her art. She was sketching the fist and tree again, her gaze flicking between the massive rock formation and her paper, capturing its details with an accuracy that surprised me every time. I couldn’t wait to see how today’s drawing differed from yesterday.

I leaned back against my pack, letting the warmth of the fire soothe my muscles. My eyes were drawn to Ana, watching the way her brow furrowed in concentration. She had always been like this, ever since she could hold a pencil. Drawing was her way of communicating with the world when words didn’t feel right. She did seem less uneasy after eating though, so maybe the risotto was the right choice.

For a moment, everything felt peaceful. The fire, Ana drawing, the quiet of the forest—it was almost enough to make me forget about the strange occurrences from earlier. Almost.