Rain Puddle Girl Red Eyes Dead Forest

The puddle is not shallow. It just looks that way because the ripples keep starting from the center — where she stands — and never reach the edge. The water has forgotten how to be still.

The trees are dead but not empty. Red eyes live in the hollows where branches fork. Some blink. Most don't. The ones that don't are the ones still watching.

She wears a gray uniform that the rain has already soaked through. The fabric hangs heavier than it should. The collar is dark with water. She does not shiver. She has been here long enough to stop feeling the cold.

The sky is not black. It is blue-gray — the color of a screen that lost its backlight but hasn't gone dark yet. Rain falls in vertical lines, evenly spaced, like code scrolling. The forest reads it. The eyes read it. She does not.

At her feet, the ripples form perfect circles. Concentric. Endless. Each ring is white against the black water — the only geometry in a place that forgot straight lines. If you count the rings, you lose count. If you don't count, you feel them anyway.