Stavanger Bay every time you move like that, I got to go to sunday mass

For the first time, the forest felt suffocating. The towering trees, once a comfort, now loomed like silent judges, their branches clawing at the sky.

Oppressive. Overbearing.

A tightness wound itself around Kirain’s chest. Every rustle, every shadow seemed to press closer. Her nerves frayed with each step, until she could bear it no longer.

She needed out.
She needed air.

Without a second thought, she pushed through the underbrush, racing between trunks as if ghosts nipped at her heels—phantoms of a past that mocked and clung to her like cobwebs. The moment she broke free of the trees, she didn’t stop. Her paws beat a rhythm into the earth, a desperate gallop toward the nearby bay.

And then, relief. The salt tang hit her nose just as her feet met the sand. She didn’t hesitate. Kirain plunged into the water, crashing through waves like a creature fleeing fire. The cold was shocking, a slap of clarity, but welcome. She needed it. She needed to drown out the fear snaking through her veins like ice.

She stayed there for a time, drifting just beyond the pull of the surf, letting the tide rock her gently. For a moment, she breathed.

Until, movement.
She turned toward the shore and froze.

A stranger stood there.

Startled, her limbs stiffened, and she slipped beneath the surface with a gasp, dragging briny water into her lungs. Panic flared. She thrashed upward, coughing and sputtering, fighting her way toward the shallows.

Salt burned her throat as she stumbled ashore, collapsing onto wet sand with each breath scraping free the water that did not belong.