The first thing you feel is the cold—deep, damp, and unwelcome—seeping through your clothes. Your breath curls in the air like ghostly smoke. You’re barefoot, bare-chested, your body trembling not just from the chill, but from the wrongness of it all.
The trees loom like sentinels carved from obsidian, their bark cracked and weeping a dark sap that smells faintly of iron and rot. The sky is a bruised purple, lightless even at noon. No birds. No wind. Just the hollow echo of your heartbeat—and something else… watching.
You remember nothing. No name. No past. Just the forest.
Day 1:
You stumble through the underbrush, tripping over roots that feel too much like fingers. You find a broken branch—your first weapon. You hack at a sapling with it, wood splintering like bone. Hunger gnaws. You find bitter berries, but when you taste one, your tongue burns and your vision flickers—you see a face in the bark. A whisper: "You’re not the first."
You sleep crouched in the hollow of a fallen tree, wrapped in moss. That night, the wind doesn’t blow. It breathes. And it speaks in your mother’s voice.
Day 3:
You build a lean-to from fallen branches and bark. Fire is impossible—no flint, no dry tinder. But you find a patch of luminous moss that glows faintly when touched. You touch it. It screams.
You wake to find your shelter half-dismantled. The moss is gone. In its place, a crude carving in the dirt: a face with too many eyes.
You remember a dream—of a cabin, smoke curling from its chimney, a door that opened onto a room with a child’s laughter. You don’t know if it was real. Or if you’re already losing your mind.
Day 7:
You kill a deer—no, it’s not a deer. Its antlers twist like broken prayers, its eyes are milky white. You eat raw flesh. Your stomach heaves. But the hunger… it doesn’t leave.
You find a journal buried beneath a stone. The pages are stained with blood, but the writing is yours:
"It feeds on memory. It knows you’re afraid. It wears your past like a mask. Don’t trust the trees. Don’t trust the light. Don’t trust the voice that says your name."
Then, at the bottom, a name you don’t recognize—but you know it’s yours.
Day 12:
You hear laughter. A child’s. You follow it. The forest shifts—trees slide aside like old doors. You find a clearing. A cabin. Smoke. A fire.
And in the doorway, a figure. Small. Wearing your clothes. Your face.
It smiles.
“Welcome back,” it says. “You’ve been away a long time.”
You don’t know if you’re the one who came back… or if you were always here.
How long can you survive?
Long enough to remember… or long enough to forget?
The forest doesn’t kill you.
It remembers you.
And it’s been waiting.
🌲 Choose: Burn the cabin. Run into the trees. Or walk inside… and say your name again?
