The crawlspace spat them out into a cavern hidden beneath the tangle of living roots. It was larger than any burrow could rightly be — a vast chamber where the ceiling dripped with tendrils like a giant's hair, each strand trailing beads of water and threads of mold that pulsed faintly in the dark.
Rafi pulled himself free first. His palms bled where the root-teeth had scraped him raw, but he barely noticed. He was too busy listening.
It wasn't just the hush whispering now.
It was a song — low, layered, wrong in a way that made the hairs on his neck rise one by one. It sounded like a hundred throats humming the same note beneath their breath, out of tune with the living world above. The stone floor beneath him vibrated gently to its rhythm, as if the earth itself had grown a voice box and was using it to croon lullabies to the dead.
The braid girl sat cross-legged near the center of the cavern, eyes half-shut, her face tilted up toward the dripping roots that danced to that hidden choir. In the glowless dark, her braid looked like a second spine trailing behind her, connecting her to the floor.
Rafi crawled to her side, feeling the song crawl inside his head like a cold worm. It burrowed behind his eyes, behind his teeth. He clenched his jaw to keep from humming along.
All around them, the hush exhaled through the cavern walls, weaving itself into the music. It carried words he couldn't catch — broken prayers, maybe. Or the leftover thoughts of everyone who'd ever been swallowed here.
Beneath his palm, the ground moved. He spread his fingers. The stone was shot through with hairline cracks, and through them he felt the hush's pulse, drumming like blood behind skin.
A memory rose up then, unbidden: his father's voice, soft and uncertain on nights when the forest rattled the shutters. You listen to the wind too long, boy, it'll start listening back.
The braid girl opened her eyes and pressed a finger to her lips, though he hadn't spoken. She mouthed: Listen. Then she closed her eyes again and tilted her head as if the cavern ceiling were telling her secrets only she could bear to hear.
Rafi forced himself still. He let the choir flood his head, pulling him under. Faces bloomed behind his eyelids — the kids from camp who'd vanished into the hush years ago. His mother, mouth sewn shut by forest roots. His own face, younger, covered in soot from the kitchen fire that killed the last warmth he'd known.
He almost joined in the song. He almost gave up.
But something small and stubborn in him refused. Maybe the braid girl knew this would happen. Maybe that's why she trusted him to listen but not to believe.
He reached out. His fingertips brushed her wrist — cold as creek water. Her pulse fluttered under his touch, ragged but alive.
Not a choir, he thought. A trap. A nest for all the things we won't let go of.
The hush shivered through him, sensing his defiance. The choir dipped to a low growl, an echo of thunder underground. Somewhere behind the root walls, the forest creaked in response — old trunks shifting, old mouths opening.
Rafi leaned closer to the braid girl's ear and breathed, not a word but a push of warmth — enough to call her back to him.
Her eyes snapped open. The hum in the cavern cracked like a dish dropped from a great height.
Together, they staggered to their feet. Around them, the roots twitched, struggling to mend the song that kept them docile. But they were awake now. Awake enough to run.
Rafi squeezed her hand. Beneath their boots, the hush screamed without a sound — the buried choir breaking its voice on the stone.
They fled through the root-tunnels, carrying that silence in their chests like a warning: no lullaby lasts forever.