Mara was seven, and she was sure the woods behind her grandmother’s house were empty. Empty meant safe. Empty meant nothing was watching, which also meant nothing could help.
She took the long path because the short one went past the dark holly. Halfway in, she lost the turn. The trees looked like they had been rearranged.
That is when she heard her name — not shouted, not scary. The way her grandmother said it from the porch. She followed it to a break in the trees where the light came down in a straight line, and the house was there, as if it had been waiting.
“You thought the woods were empty,” her grandmother said, handing her a cup. “They never are. The Shepherd knows the path even when you don’t.”