Chapter 5 Hidden In The Woods

• Lucia's Return to the World
• The first thing Lucia noticed was the stillness.
• It wasn’t silence. The room she woke in wasn’t empty of sound—she could hear the distant chirp of birds, the occasional breeze brushing past a window, and the gentle creak of wooden floorboards shifting under weight she couldn’t see.
• But the stillness ran deeper than silence. It was in the way the air clung to her skin, the way time seemed to hesitate each time she blinked.
• This isn’t my room.
• Lucia sat up slowly, muscles groaning in protest. Every joint felt like it had rusted over and been reluctantly forced back into use. Her limbs were stiff, her balance uncertain, but her mind was sharp—sharper than it had been in days.
• She blinked against the light filtering in through lace-draped curtains and stared around the unfamiliar room.
• It was cozy—too cozy. A queen-sized bed with a carved wooden headboard, floral wallpaper in soft greens, a woven rug, a porcelain basin on a corner table. Everything looked like it belonged in an old countryside inn.
• And it smelled like… lavender. Not artificial spray—but real, crushed herbs. Earthy. Clean. Safe.
• The problem was, she had no idea where she was.
• Lucia eased her feet onto the floor and winced. She could move now. The fog in her brain from the past week had lifted. Her coma—if that was truly what it had been—was over. She had survived.
• And yet, nothing felt normal.
• There was a knock at the door.
• “Come in,” she called, her voice raspier than she remembered. It sounded too old, too weathered for someone her age.
• The door opened slowly, revealing her mother.
• Mirabelle froze in the doorway for half a second. Then, with a soft cry, she crossed the room in three strides and pulled Lucia into a hug.
• “You’re awake,” she whispered into her daughter’s hair. “Oh, baby, you’re finally awake.”
• Lucia’s eyes filled. She clung to her mother like she had when she was five years old and had fallen off her bicycle for the first time.
• “I missed you, Mom,” she murmured. “I don’t… even know what happened.”
• “I’ll tell you everything,” Mirabelle said, brushing back her daughter’s hair. Her hands trembled. “But first… just let me look at you.”
• Lucia let her. Her mother’s eyes were rimmed red, the lines on her face deeper than she remembered. There were strands of silver in her hair now, and a softness in her voice that had not always been there.
• She’s aged. So much.
• “How long was I out?” Lucia asked quietly.
• Mirabelle’s smile faltered. “Almost three years.”
• The words slammed into her chest like a punch.
• “Three years?”
• Her mother nodded. “I’ll explain everything. There was an accident… and it was serious. You—” Her voice caught. “You almost didn’t make it.”
• Lucia swallowed hard. “But I did.”
• “You did,” her mother confirmed, stroking her cheek. “Thanks to some unexpected help.”
• That was when Abby stepped in, holding a tray of soup and toast. She looked thinner, but still solid—still Abby. Her eyes glistened with tears when she saw Lucia sitting upright.
• “My baby girl,” Abby whispered. “You’ve no idea how good it is to see you awake.”
• Lucia smiled through her confusion. “Didn’t expect to wake up in a bed this nice. Did the hospital redecorate?”
• Mirabelle and Abby exchanged a glance.
• “We… had to move,” Mirabelle said carefully. “After the accident, the hospital bills were too much. We lost the laundromat. We lost the house.”
• Lucia’s smile disappeared.
• “But we’re okay now,” Abby added quickly. “Someone helped us. He bought the farm. And he offered us a place to stay while you recovered.”
• “A stranger bought our land?” Lucia asked, a frown forming.
• “Yes,” Mirabelle answered. “A man named Kelvin Stayn. He owns this estate. It's… private, secluded. Safe.”
• Lucia’s brows furrowed. The name rang no bells, but something about it echoed deep in her bones.
• Safe. The word felt wrong. Or at least, incomplete.
• She ate in silence while her mother and Abby filled her in on what they knew. About the accident. The coma. The hospital. The farm being sold. The estate and the deal made in desperation.
• They spoke calmly, but Lucia could feel the tension beneath their words. They were holding something back.
• When she finished eating, she asked to rest. Mirabelle kissed her forehead and left reluctantly, followed by Abby. The door clicked softly shut.
• Lucia stared at the ceiling.
• Something wasn’t right.
• ---
• The next day, after a gentle bath and a short walk around the room, Lucia insisted on seeing outside.
• Abby tried to dissuade her. “You need more rest. Maybe tomorrow.”
• “I’ve rested for three years,” Lucia countered. “I need to feel the air.”
• That won her a sigh—and a coat.
• Together they stepped outside, and Lucia was greeted by a world that felt too perfect.
• The estate stretched endlessly, a mixture of polished pathways and wild woods. Flower gardens spilled over with color. Fruit trees lined one side of the gravel road, and off in the distance, she could see a stone manor that looked like something from a medieval fairytale.
• It was beautiful.
• And it was wrong.
• She couldn’t explain why. The land felt… too alive. Not in the way gardens bloom in spring. In the way something watched. As if every petal, every breeze, every branch tilted toward her.
• Her skin prickled.
• They passed a tall iron fence that seemed more symbolic than functional. Past it, a thick grove of ancient trees swayed.
• Lucia stopped.
• “Do people live in those woods?”
• Abby followed her gaze. “Not really. The estate workers sometimes pass through. That’s about it.”
• Lucia tilted her head. “I thought I saw something there. Like a… shadow.”
• Abby’s posture stiffened, but her face remained composed. “Just your imagination, sweet girl. Your senses are still recovering.”
• But Lucia wasn’t so sure.
• When they returned to the cottage, Lucia stood for a moment just inside the doorway. Her mother was sweeping the kitchen floor, humming a song Lucia didn’t recognize. Abby stepped past her to hang coats.
• And in that still moment, a sharp thought slipped through her mind like a whisper:
• Why do I feel like I’ve been here before?
• ---
• That night, Lucia stared at the moon through her window.
• She had always loved the moon. Even as a child, she’d written poems to it. In the hospital, before she lost consciousness, she remembered thinking about it—that silver eye in the sky that never closed.
• But tonight, the moon didn’t feel comforting.
• It felt like a memory.
• And as she drifted into sleep, she heard a voice—faint, feminine, gentle.
• “It’s time to remember who you are.”