The Forgotten Pines

The Forgotten Pines

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The Mystery Shack was alive with the usual sounds of summer.

The front door jingled as tourists came and went, their voices blending into the background noise of the gift shop. Dipper was at the register, struggling to explain to a skeptical customer why the so-called “Real Bigfoot Toenail” was definitely authentic. Mabel was draped over the counter behind him, doodling in her journal and occasionally chiming in with exaggerated claims to boost sales.

Soos, humming to himself, was fixing a squeaky floorboard near the entrance while Wendy leaned against the doorway, idly twirling an ice pop between her fingers. It was, by all accounts, an ordinary afternoon in Gravity Falls.

Inside the living room, however, things were much quieter.

Stan lounged on the couch, flipping through TV channels with his usual dissatisfaction.

“Two hundred channels, and they’re all garbage,” he grumbled, clicking past an old western, a soap opera, and a conspiracy documentary narrated by a guy who definitely sounded like Ford.

Ford, seated nearby, barely acknowledged him, too engrossed in one of his notebooks. His brow was furrowed, his pen tapping absently against the page as he reviewed old calculations.

It had been a year since Bill Cipher’s defeat. A year since the Rift was sealed, the universe restored, and Ford had finally come home. For the first time in decades, life had slowed down. No interdimensional chaos. No apocalyptic threats. Just family.

And for the most part, it was… nice.

Until the ground shook.

The vibrations rattled the entire shack, making the overhead lamp sway and knocking a picture frame off the wall. The twins heard it from the gift shop, their heads snapping up in alarm.

“Uh… was that an earthquake?” Dipper asked, already reaching for his journal.

“Or a ghost earthquake,” Mabel suggested, eyes wide with intrigue. “Which, statistically, is way less likely, but way more fun!”

Before they could speculate further, a faint blue light seeped between the floorboards, pulsing like a slow heartbeat.

Ford froze.

His breath hitched as his gaze shot toward the basement door.

Stan noticed. His brother had the exact same expression he’d had the day they first activated the portal.

“…Oh no.” Ford’s voice was barely a whisper.

Then, without another word, he bolted.

“Hey! What the heck is going on?” Stan barked, scrambling off the couch. But Ford was already halfway to the basement.

Dipper and Mabel exchanged glances. That was definitely not a good sign.

“C’mon!” Dipper grabbed Mabel’s wrist, dragging her along as they chased after the two older men.

Ford practically threw open the basement door, his heart hammering. His stomach twisted as he took the stairs two at a time.

Please don’t let it be what I think it is.

But the moment his feet hit the basement floor, his worst fear was confirmed.

The portal was active.

The impossible blue glow bathed the room in eerie light, reflecting off the rusted machinery that hadn’t been touched in over a year. It should have been destroyed. It should have been gone.

And yet—

A figure stepped through.

They moved slowly, deliberately, as if unused to solid ground. A thick, tattered cloak clung to their thin frame, hood pulled low over their face. Their boots—patched and worn from years of use—scuffed softly against the concrete as they took another step forward.

Stan and the others arrived just in time to see them emerge fully.

The tension in the room thickened. The air felt wrong.

Then the figure raised their head—

And Stan’s heart nearly stopped.

The hood fell back just enough to reveal a familiar, shaggy mullet, streaked with premature gray. Haunted, chocolate-brown eyes flickered between them, distant yet hyper-aware, like a cornered animal assessing its surroundings. Their posture was stiff, defensive, shoulders hunched slightly inward.

They weren’t just thin. They were scarred.

Burns, jagged and cruel, peeked out from the frayed edges of their gloves. The faint outline of an autopsy scar was just barely visible beneath their turtleneck.

But worst of all…

The jagged, glowing marks around their wrists and throat.

Stan swayed slightly, feeling like he’d been punched in the gut.

“…Lee?”

The name barely made it past his lips, his voice raw and disbelieving.

Ford was silent, his entire body frozen in place.

At the sound of his name, Stanlee flinched.

His hands twitched, one instinctively moving toward his forearm, where an old tattoo was partially hidden beneath his sleeve. His fingers pressed against it—an old grounding habit, though his hand still shook.

His breathing was too fast. The glow of the portal cast shifting shadows across his face, making it hard to tell if he was trembling from exhaustion or from something deeper.

Then—a flash of movement.

A photon pistol was in his hand before anyone could react, the barrel leveled directly at Stan and Ford.

Everyone froze.

“WHOA, HEY—OKAY!” Stan threw his hands up immediately. “Easy there, runt!”

Ford’s heart clenched. The way Stanlee held the weapon—his grip too tight, his stance unsteady—it wasn’t aggression. It was fear.

“Lee,” Ford said carefully, keeping his hands where Stanlee could see them. “It’s us. Stanley and Stanford. Your brothers.”

Stanlee didn’t lower the gun.

His shoulders shook. His fingers twitched. His breathing was too fast.

The blue light of the portal flickered across his face, illuminating something new—

The faintest glisten of tears.

“…I can’t trust this,” Stanlee rasped. His voice was barely there, hoarse from years of disuse, but the raw emotion in those few words shattered something inside Ford.

Stanlee’s hand shook violently.

Then—

“…You can trust us,” Mabel’s voice, softer than usual, cut through the thick tension.

Stanlee’s eyes darted toward the source—two teenagers. One with an earnest, hopeful expression. The other, a young man with hesitant but intelligent eyes, scanning him carefully, as if trying to understand him.

They weren’t illusions. They weren’t tricks.

They were just kids.

Real kids.

His grip on the gun loosened. His posture sagged, years of exhaustion crashing into him all at once.

The pistol slipped from his fingers.

And the moment it hit the ground—

Stanlee collapsed.

Stanford managed to catch his little brother before Lee could hit the floor

Stan quickly moved to support him as well, gripping his brother’s shoulders firmly, grounding him.

Stanlee trembled violently. His fingers curled into the fabric of Ford’s coat, his breath coming in sharp, broken gasps.

“Don’t leave me again,” he whispered, the plea barely audible. “Please…”

Stan’s face crumpled “Aw, kid…” He pulled him in, his grip fierce but careful. “We ain’t goin’ anywhere. You’re home, Lee. You’re home.”