By the time Ingrid returned to the camp her tent had collapsed. On the forest floor, the dark canvas looked like some creeping animal - utterly out of place in the preternatural silence.
You could set it up again. The pegs are still there. You have enough supplies to live another week.
The voice in her head. Choosing life again today. Yesterday it had argued against this same choice and the constant back and forth of it made her feel the souls in this damned place had moved in to stay. Begging for life. Praying for her to end it. She couldn't even be sure anymore they'd actually leave if she did. With a sigh, she moved in the direction of the tent, paused at its edge, her hand moving back to fiddling nervously with the binoculars around her neck instead. Giving in to the impulse, Ingrid lifted it, slowly, to her remaining eye. The one she hadn't yet plucked out. In the half light of dusk Aokigahara came alive with figures, mouthing soft pleas for her to listen. Lost souls. So many wasted lives. Still, in that gloom of figures, he wasn't there. She moved to the tent, started slowly to reassemble the tattered canvas. Perhaps, tomorrow, he would be.
(Second image by 
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