After their dinner of dry sweet potato and lukewarm water, the hut fell into a silence so thin it felt like it could tear.
The oil lamp in the corner burned low, stubborn but struggling. Its flame threw a honey-colored glow across the bamboo walls, softening their roughness, turning cracks into long veins of shadow.
Every time the wind slipped through the jungle, the flame shivered—and the shadows stretched and twisted like figures pacing just outside the light.
Outside, the jungle had its own nightlife.
Crickets scratched out a relentless beat.
Leaves brushed against each other like hushed gossip.
Somewhere far off, something let out a long, hollow cry that didn't sound fully animal. The noise slid under the door and settled in Shay's chest, heavy and cold.
