What We Carried to the Water

There's no warning. Just the crack of panicked voices splitting the night, and Karen lurching upright with her heart already racing before her mind catches up. The darkness outside is absolute—no stars, no moon, just the feeble flicker of the campfire and shadows that move wrong.

Then the Portal flares on the horizon. The dogs bolt. People scatter into the black like leaves ripped from a branch. Karen lunges to follow, but Chris catches her arm. We'll only get lost too. So they wait. And the waiting is worse than running would have been.

When Jamie finally stumbles back into the light, he's not alone. There's a woman—a warrior, strange and sharp-edged—and in his arms, something bleeding. Something dying. Something he refuses to let go.

The river is supposed to heal. Everyone says so. Karen follows anyway, torch in hand, hope like glass in her chest. But the water runs red, and the miracle doesn't come, and by the time the night finally releases them, something has broken that won't be fixed by morning.

Karen stays. She keeps the fire burning. She watches Jamie become a statue of grief.

And she learns what it costs to witness what you cannot save.