The white curtain stirred faintly in air that shouldn't have found its way inside. And there, on the sill, in dust otherwise undisturbed by anything larger than a moth, was a single clear print—too large for her own hand, its edges sharp as if pressed there only moments ago, as if someone had leaned close to the glass and looked out, or in, only just before she'd arrived.

She stood very still.

Somewhere beyond the treeline the creek went on with its low unbothered murmuring, and the wind moved once through the high branches with a sound almost like breath drawn in surprise.

Sasha had come to these woods believing she would finally be alone with herself.

Standing there in the gathering dark, staring at that print pressed into the dust, she understood with sudden and absolute certainty that she was not.