The archivist

**Kelly Thompson's POV**

The forest isn’t a forest anymore.

It’s a *museum*.

Trees stand petrified, their bark replaced by veins of obsidian and quartz, leaves fossilized into shards of jagged glass. The air smells of burnt sugar and rust, the ground crunching underfoot like shattered bone. The Silence didn’t just retreat—it *curated* this place. A trophy room for the apocalypse.

Eden’s absence is a phantom limb. The static in me is quieter now, a distant hum where there was once a roar. I don’t know if it’s fading or if I’m just learning to ignore it.

A sound slices through the stillness—a child’s laugh, high and bright. It’s coming from a clearing ahead, where the trees part to reveal a cottage. Not the cabin we burned, but something older, its timber warped into unnatural angles, its windows glowing with a sickly green light.

The door creaks open.

“You’re late,” says a voice.