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In a quiet corner of a pine forest near the shore, a woman works with steady hands, crafting practical items for a nearby fishing village - sturdy furniture, storage crates, and anything the townsfolk might need. Her work is plain but reliable, the kind that lasts through harsh winters and salty sea air. The villagers still seek her out, though her demeanor has grown colder over the years. Her hands, once driven by pride in her craft, now move only out of obligation.Years ago, when her son fell ill with a strange fever, she found herself desperate. During a storm, she ventured to the edge of the forest, near the cliffs, where she encountered a dark presence, that promised her son would live, but only if she agreed to serve. Without hesitation, she accepted. The next day, her son’s fever broke, his strength returning as though nothing had happened.But something had. Over time, her son began to change. His teeth grew slightly larger and sharper, his fingers thickened, and patches of coarse, dark hair appeared on his skin. His behavior shifted too. He grew restless around water, gnawing absentmindedly on pieces of wood, his posture low and hunched. The changes were subtle at first, but undeniable. Though he still spoke and moved like a boy, the mother could not ignore the growing resemblance to a beaver.But that wasn't all. She has to spend her days crafting masks, unsettling things carved from driftwood and whatever she can find along the shore. She’s told that they bring blessings from the sea to those who wear them. But she knows better. The masks are tools of control. They’ve slowly begun to change the villagers who wear them, making them distant, their eyes hollow and their thoughts clouded. Worse still, her son began to help her. His beaver-like tendencies made him unnervingly adept at chewing and shaping wood, his hands more like tools than human appendages.Now, in the dead of night, the rhythmic sounds of their work echo through the forest. The woman chisels and sands, while her son gnaws and drags wood into place. Sometimes she looks at him and wonders if she saved him at all—or if she traded her boy for something else entirely.