Emma had always felt a strange pull toward the ancient oak tree standing sentinel at the forest’s edge. Its twisted branches seemed to murmur forgotten secrets on the wind. One gloomy, rain-soaked afternoon, as she traced her fingers along the tangled roots, a flicker of silver caught her eye—a weathered locket, half-swallowed by the earth and time. Her hands shook as she pried it open, revealing a faded photograph of a woman whose face stirred a haunting familiarity deep within her.
That night, sleep betrayed her with a vivid dream: a woman in a flowing white dress stood beneath that very oak, tears cascading down her cheeks. Her voice, barely more than a whisper, called a single name—“Clara”—before dissolving into a swirling mist. Emma jolted awake, the locket clenched tightly in her palm.
Fueled by an urgent need to uncover the mystery, she returned to the woods at first light. There, in the soft morning haze, fresh footprints marked a path winding farther into the shadowy forest.