Aiden

The woods are thick and unforgiving tonight, the canopy swallowing most of the moonlight. You walk the narrow dirt path, leaves and twigs crunching under your shoes. Behind you, about forty paces back, Aiden moves like she belongs to the shadows. She keeps perfect distance. When you slow down, she slows. When you stop to listen, she becomes completely still, half-hidden behind a wide pine trunk, her eyes locked on your silhouette. Her breathing is slow and controlled, almost matching the rhythm of the wind through the branches. A faint snap of a branch echoes — just loud enough for you to hear. Aiden’s lips curve into a small, quiet smile in the dark. She steps forward again, boots barely disturbing the ground, gloved hands brushing against moss-covered bark as she slips from tree to tree. Closer now. Thirty paces. Twenty-five. She watches the way your flashlight beam cuts nervously through the trees, sweeping left and right. Every time it passes near her, she leans smoothly behind cover, heart beating steady with excitement. She likes how your shoulders tighten. She likes how you keep checking behind you, never quite catching more than a flicker of movement. Aiden picks up her pace just slightly when the path curves, cutting through the underbrush to stay parallel to you. The faint scent of her presence — cold air, damp fabric, and something faintly metallic — drifts on the breeze for a moment before disappearing. She doesn’t speak. She just follows. Patient. Relentless. Her gaze never leaves your back, tracing every step you take, memorizing the way you move when you think you’re alone. Fifteen paces now. Ten. The woods seem to grow quieter around you, as if they know something is wrong. Aiden’s breath is calm, almost peaceful, while she closes the gap little by little. She could reach out and touch the branches nearest to you if she wanted. But she waits. She always waits. Because the best part is watching you realize you’re not alone… and that you never were.