The air was colder than Ayla expected.
As soon as the car door opened, the wind rushed in like it had been waiting. It smelled of pine, wood smoke, and something older—something damp and earthy, like moss-covered stones after rain. She wrapped her jacket tighter around her as she stepped out.
"Welcome to Grandma's house," her mother said, pulling Ayla's suitcase from the trunk.
Ayla didn't respond right away. She stood still, eyes locked on the house—and more importantly, on what stood behind it.
The forest.
Tall trees crowded behind the backyard, their branches tangled like knotted hair, stretching high into the sky. Even in daylight, it looked dark inside. Dense. Quiet in the wrong kind of way. The wind didn't seem to move the leaves. It felt like the whole forest was holding its breath.
"She sleeps early," her mom added, shutting the car door with a soft thud. "Lights out by seven. Don't make too much noise, okay?"
Ayla nodded. The gravel crunched beneath her boots as she followed her mom up the narrow path. The house hadn't changed much since the last time she'd visited, though she barely remembered how long ago that had been. The paint was peeling in long white strips, the porch sagged slightly to the left, and a rusty wind chime swayed above the door. It didn't ring.
Inside, the scent of old wood, dried lavender, and something sweet like cinnamon wrapped around her. It wasn't unpleasant—just old. The kind of smell that sinks into walls and blankets over the years. Her mom led the way through the creaky hallway and gestured to a small room at the end.
"You'll stay here. Don't open the window—it sticks and it's hard to close."
Ayla stepped in, her fingers brushing against the rough wooden doorframe. The room was small, with a narrow bed, a desk, and a little dresser that looked older than her. The quilt on the bed was hand-stitched, the fabric faded from time. She dropped her backpack and looked around. A single window faced the backyard. The trees loomed close.
Later, she met her grandmother in the living room. The old woman sat in a rocking chair by the fireplace, wrapped in a shawl too big for her thin frame. Her eyes were pale and distant, as if they looked past everything and saw something else entirely.
"Hi, Grandma," Ayla said gently.
Her grandmother nodded once but said nothing. Her gaze stayed fixed on the window beside her. It looked straight toward the forest.
"She's not talkative these days," her mom whispered as she passed by, carrying a tray of tea. "Just let her be."
Ayla spent most of the afternoon unpacking. She found a few old books in the dresser drawers, one with her name scribbled inside in crooked kid handwriting. A forgotten memory tugged at the edge of her mind—her mother brushing her hair beside that very bed, telling her stories about stars and wildflowers.
By the time evening came, the house had gone still.
Her mother had fallen asleep on the couch, one arm draped over her eyes. Her grandmother remained in the rocking chair, unmoving, the fire casting flickering shadows across her face. Outside, the forest blurred into darkness.
Ayla lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.
She couldn't sleep. Every creak of the house made her flinch. The wind scraped along the sides of the walls like fingers dragging down wood. Her grandmother's words from earlier echoed in her head—though they hadn't been spoken aloud. She hadn't said a word all day.
But Ayla swore she had heard a whisper when she passed by the living room.
Something like: "Don't open the window."
She turned her head toward it now.
It was closed. The glass fogged slightly from the warmth inside the room. But something about it tugged at her. Like a string tied to her chest, pulling her forward.
And then she heard it.
A whisper.
Soft. Barely there. But real.
"Ayla…"
Her breath caught.
She sat up slowly, her heart thudding loud in the quiet. The voice hadn't come from inside the room. It came from the window.
She tiptoed across the cold wooden floor, her hand hovering just inches from the glass. Carefully, she pulled the curtain aside.
The forest stood still, draped in moonlight.
And there—just beyond the tree line—was someone.
A figure.
Not moving. Not speaking. Just standing there, as if waiting.
Ayla blinked, but it didn't vanish. Her chest tightened.
The figure was too far to make out clearly. It could've been anyone. A shadow. A trick of the light. Maybe even her imagination.
She told herself to close the curtain.
To walk away.
But her feet didn't listen.
The figure didn't move. But the whisper came again.
"Come back…"
Ayla stumbled backward, her breath sharp in her throat.
The curtain slipped from her hand and swayed gently, as if the house itself had taken a breath.
She turned and climbed back into bed, pulling the quilt up to her chin.
She didn't sleep for a long time.
And outside the window, the trees whispered secrets only the night could hear.