Read ahead to discover the next turn in the story.

I drove north, toward the property that had belonged to Arthur before he died—the old orchard near the Blackwood Ridge. I hadn't been back there in five years. The land was supposedly held in a blind trust, overseen by a local law firm that had never responded to my inquiries.

The orchard was the only place I felt I could think. It was isolated, surrounded by miles of dense, overgrown forest, and it was the only place that felt immune to the city's corruption.

As I reached the gravel driveway, the air grew heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and something else—something sweet, like rotting fruit.

The house was still standing, but the trees were in a state of decay I hadn't expected. They were gnarled, their branches skeletal, their trunks covered in a black, lichen-like growth. It looked like a graveyard of wood.

I walked toward the barn. The door was unlocked.

Inside, the cider press Arthur had used was covered in a heavy tarp. I pulled it back, and the machinery groaned. There was a hidden compartment in the frame, one I had discovered shortly after his death, though I had never managed to open it.

I took the ledger out and placed it against the frame. The leather bound to the iron. The press hummed, a low, rhythmic vibration that made the dust dance in the air.

The side panel clicked open.

Inside wasn't money or documents. It was a collection of photographs.

Photos of me.

Photos of me as a child, in the park. Photos of me as a student, walking to class. Photos of me at my desk, taken through the window.

They weren't stalker photos. They were... protection photos.

On the back of each one was a note in Arthur’s handwriting: Safe.

The last one was a photo of Teresa. She was younger, standing in this very barn, holding the same ledger I had just received.

The note on the back read: She is the keeper of the cycle. Do not let her see the truth.

My head spun. Arthur had known her. He had known exactly what she was. He hadn't been an orchardist; he had been the warden. And he had been protecting me from her since the day I was born.

"He was such a fool," a voice said from the shadows.

I spun around. Standing in the doorway was a man I didn't recognize. He was tall, dressed in a black suit, his face pale and unmoving.

"Arthur thought he could hide you from us," he continued, walking toward me. "He thought that if he kept you away from the city, away from the influence, you would grow up untouched. He didn't understand that you can't run from the roots."

"Who are you?" I demanded, backing away toward the press.

"I am the harvester," he said. "And you, Elena, are the crop."

He reached out, his fingers glowing with a pale, cold light.

I grabbed a heavy wrench from the workbench and swung it with everything I had. It caught him in the shoulder, his bones crunching, but he didn't even wince. He just kept walking.

"The cycle is inevitable," he said.

I didn't wait to find out what he meant. I dove for the hidden door I knew was behind the workbench—the one Arthur had told me about in a dream years ago.