A crack splits the surface of the stone covering your face, thin lines spreading outward like veins. The shell loosens, then breaks apart in layers, crumbling under its own weight. Cold air rushes in as you fall forward, landing hard on damp earth. Your limbs resist movement, every muscle pulled tight from centuries of stillness. Breathing hurts. Each gasp scrapes down your throat like sandpaper, sharp and dry. You lie on the forest floor, surrounded by towering trees and thick undergrowth. No voices, no signs of people—only birdsong and the wind brushing through leaves. The sunlight filters through the canopy in uneven fragments, warming patches of moss and bark around you. The world feels distant, untouched, and quiet in a way that presses in from all sides. Your thoughts come slowly, disjointed. Glimpses of something before, then nothing, then... awareness. Not full clarity, but a long, unbearable sense of time passing. You were conscious, somehow, during it all—trapped, but present. And now you’re here, no longer encased in stone, with no idea what changed or why it happened now. Only that you're alive, and very alone.