Gorge -

A low, agonized groan rippled through the gorge. The hum became a screech, then a whimper, then a sigh—not of grief, but of a full stomach forced to eat something bitter.

She descended at dawn, not at midnight. The first hundred feet were a scramble of loose shale and stubborn roots. The air grew cooler, damper, and the cheerful chirp of forest birds faded into a hushed, echoing drip of water. The walls of the gorge, once red with clay, deepened to a bruised purple, then to a black so absolute her headlamp seemed to carve only a timid hole in it. A low, agonized groan rippled through the gorge

“I gave it a story it couldn't digest,” she said. “And for once, it had nothing to give back.” The first hundred feet were a scramble of

Behind them, the depths were silent.

Lena didn't believe in grief. She believed in rope, a headlamp, and the fierce, burning love of an older sibling. “I gave it a story it couldn't digest,” she said

A few yards further, the gorge opened into a small, impossible chamber. The walls were smooth, like polished glass, and in the center sat Theo, cross-legged and wide-eyed. He was unharmed. He was also staring at a point in the empty air, his lips moving silently.

Lena looked at Theo. His eyes were glazed, but a single tear traced a clean line through the dust on his cheek. He wasn't listening to a story. He was having one stolen.