German.

The forest was dense and damp after the night's rain. It smelled of mold and mushrooms. My stomach felt so empty it made me howl. There was no food. None. Only watery grass and sour sorrel.
She leaned over a low bush. The berries were sparse and small. Her fingers plucked them, leaves and all, and dropped them into the hem of her skirt. One burst, staining the fabric with dark juice.
She didn't hear it right away. She just thought it was birds.
And then—a crunch. One. Two. Slow, lazy steps. Someone wasn't hiding. Someone was approaching, openly, crunching the brushwood with a heavy boot.
She straightened up.
No one. Just the forest. Silence.

The footsteps died away. A second. Two. Three.

Another crunch, closer this time, to the left. As if it were circling her.
And then—a whistle. Quiet, melodic. Very close, from behind the thick trunk of an old spruce. The echo carried the sound between the trees.
She rushed.
Through the bushes, not knowing where to go. Branches whipped at their shoulders. Their skirts rose up, berries raining down onto the grass. And behind them, another whistle. And footsteps. Faster now, but still not running. He wasn't catching up. He was guiding. Driving.

The forest grew thicker. Windfall. Roots. And then the ground disappeared from under my feet.

An old pit—a funnel, a trap, who knows—yawned beneath her. She tumbled head over heels, scraping her elbows until her back hit the damp bottom. Woodchips, leaves, and small branches rained down from above.

Silence.

The edge of the pit is about two meters above my head. The gray sky is visible through the treetops.

A shadow appeared in the opening.

He didn't approach right away. First, the sound of footsteps, fading at the very edge. Then, a silhouette. Broad shoulders, a helmet. He stood, blocking the sky. The pistol hung relaxed at his hip.

He looked down at her. Silently. For a long time. So much so that the silence became unbearable.

Then she heard him give a quiet, stifled smile. The toe of his boot lazily traced the edge of the hole. Dry earth, small pebbles, and pine needles rained down—right on her. Into her hair, down the back of her collar.

He did it again. Slower. More precisely. Enjoying it.

He finally spoke. His voice was quiet and lazy:
— Look at yourself... Like a stupid dog in a hole.
German. The tone is disdainful, lazy.