Grandma

Am I dying?

The ground is cold… wet… soft. It feels good.

I blink up at the canopy—dark green leaves shifting, swallowing the sky.

Where am I?

Shit, My head it hurts?

Water—I need water. My bottle… yeah, it should be in my bag. Just a sip, that's all I need.

Ahhh—damn. My hand. My shoulder. It hurts.

Just a few more inches…

Water. Yes.

Gulp. Gulp. Gulp.

In the dark forest, the sound of gulping water echoed. A man, covered in mud, drank desperately, splashing water over his face. Ryan gasped as the cool liquid soothed his throat, the fog clouding his mind lifting just a little. Castle.... I was in the castle, I slid down the hill.

Then—his pulse spiked.

The forest.

A flood of memories crashed into him—the mission, the squad, the ghost. His heart ached as the realization hit.

"Shit, I am in the forest."

"Hahaha I am screwed"

Sliding himself across the damp ground, he pressed his back against a tree, his breathing uneven. He forced himself to assess his body.

"My shoulder… bruised, I think." He exhaled sharply, running a hand over his vest. "Damn thing probably saved me from worse."

Ryan pulled himself up, wincing at the pain from the fall, the brushes were not for show. Gazing around him he saw dark green trees loomed like twisted hands, the air heavy with silence, broken only by his breath.

"I need to get out of here…" he muttered, eyes scanning the forest.

His light flickered on, a fragile blue beam cutting through the darkness. He pushed forward, his boots sinking into the mud as the trees thinned, revealing a narrow gravel path. His footsteps echoed in the silence.

After a few long, heavy minutes…

He walked, searching for a way out. His legs burned with fatigue, yet he pressed on—until he stopped.

Fresh footprints appeared on the damp ground—large, deep imprints that spoke of someone having walked there recently. A shiver ran through him; his breath caught.

"Is it that old man?" he whispered, his voice barely audible.

For a moment, he stood frozen, sweat trailing down his neck, the forest seeming to hold its breath with him. Then, exhaling slowly, he steeled himself and moved again, every step calculated, every sound suppressed. He couldn't afford to be noticed.

After another tense pause…

He hesitated again as he noticed more footprints—another set, slightly overlapping the first. His chest tightened. Not one person, but two.

Heart pounding, he slid to the side of the path, pressing his back against a tree. His mind raced with fear, his body rigid. Then, without warning, his nerves screamed, and he scrambled forward—hands digging into the mud, his face smeared with dirt. His breaths came in sharp, shallow gasps.

No. No, no, no.

He crawled toward the footprints, desperately hoping—praying—that he was mistaken. Slowly, he placed his shoe inside one of the marks. A perfect fit.

Silence. A crushing, suffocating stillness.

Then—

"FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!"

The scream tore through the night—raw, desperate, filled with rage and terror.

In that final, shattering moment…

His body trembled violently, his face contorted in rage, eyes bloodshot. With angered despair, he slammed his shoe into the mud, splattering it everywhere—as if trying to wash away the horror etched into the ground. The truth, however, was indelible, he was trapped in a ghost rift.

Lying on the ground, his eyes were empty, devoid of life. Time passed—how much, he couldn't tell. Slowly, he picked himself up from the gravel path and forced himself into the depths of the forest, hoping to escape. But after walking for a while, he found himself back on the same path. 

"There has to be a way. I'm not dying here." 

He took a deep breath and started walking again, his silhouette fading into the forest. 

Two months passed. 

In the forest, a man sat slumped against a tree, biting into a wild fruit. Juice dripped down his unkempt beard, staining it with pulp. His long hair, though somewhat neat, was tangled at the ends.

For the past two months, Ryan had been trapped in the rift, surviving on bitter wild berries and rainwater. He had searched endlessly for a way out.

Tonight was no different. After eating he walked to the gravel path. His pine resin torch crackled softly, its golden light flickering against the branches. It was the only warmth in this cold, unfeeling place. He moved carefully, boots crunching over the loose gravel, his senses sharp.

Then, from the corner of his eye, something caught his attention.

A fragment of paper, barely visible, half-buried in the dirt.

His pulse quickened.

Kneeling, he brought the torch closer. The paper was old, its edges torn and soggy, yet something about it felt… wrong. Carefully, he dug it free, lifting it with trembling fingers.

The ink was smudged, but the words were still legible. Childlike, messy handwriting scrawled across the page:

To dear Grandma,

How are you?

Mother told me you have gone to a faraway place. Mother won't tell me where.

I miss you, Grandma. Please come back. I will not be naughty. I will behave well.

I miss walking with you. Please come home.

I will give this to the postman's uncle. Father said he knows where everyone lives. He will give you my letter.

Love you, Grandma.