Maya's Frightening Vision

The chill in the air wasn’t just from the encroaching twilight; it was a prickle of unease that had settled deep into my bones. Maya, her face pale and drawn, clutched her worn sketchbook to her chest like a shield. Her eyes, usually alight with the quiet joy of capturing the world around her, were wide and unfocused, darting to the dense wall of trees that pressed in on our small clearing.

“I… I saw something,” she stammered, her voice barely a whisper, barely audible above the rustling leaves. “Earlier today. Before… before William.”

Gary, ever the pragmatist, knelt beside her, his brow furrowed with concern. “Saw what, Maya? A deer? A fox?” He tried to keep his tone gentle, but the edge of impatience was there, a subtle current beneath the surface of his forced calm. We were all on edge, every sound amplified, every shadow a potential threat.