Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jackson, Wyoming – Winter, 2035 

The world didn’t end in fire, not like the old books promised. 
It rotted. Slow and quiet. 

One day the sky cracked open, and by the next, it was too late to outrun the spores. Cities fell. People turned. And the ones who didn’t? They changed anyway. 

Eira had been four. 
She didn’t remember the news or the screaming or the way her mother cried in the truck while her father drove. But she remembered the smell of soil. Cold air. Her father’s hand, tight around hers, leading her into the woods. Away. 

She’d grown up with the sound of chickens, the weight of a rifle strap, the silence of no other children’s laughter. She learned to grow food and gut fish before she learned to read. She knew how to sew a wound. How to tell when someone was lying. 

By the time she was twenty-five, she’d survived two pandemics: the one that killed the world, and the one that followed inside her own head. 

Now, the farm was gone. Her father was gone. 
And her mother’s last words had never really left the cabin walls. 

Jackson was safe, they said. 
Clean water. Food. Walls thick enough to hold back the bad things. 

But safety didn’t mean peace. 
And Eira didn’t know how to be a person anymore—not in a town, not around people. 

The only thing that made sense was her horse, the wind, and the man who dropped firewood by her door without saying a word. 

She didn’t want a new beginning. She wanted something that didn’t ask her to start over. 
Something that didn’t require forgetting. 

Maybe that started with a ride. 
Maybe it started with him. 

Maybe it didn’t start at all. 

Chapter Text

In the Pine Grove 

Do the pine-trees have a yearning 
For a respite,—oft I wonder,— 
From the lightning's jagged burning 
And the shaking of the thunder? 
Ruby Archer 

The land stretched wide and hushed beneath a pale, cold sky. Pines stood sentinel on the hillsides, their dark needles whispering in the breeze like old voices too tired to raise alarm. Between them, the ground dipped and rose again—spotted with ash-colored stones, broken branches, and the sun-bleached bones of a deer too long dead to mourn.

Mist clung low across the forest floor, pooling in hollows and softening the outlines of everything it touched. There was beauty in the stillness—but not peace. Nothing here was ever just one thing.

A squirrel skittered across a fallen log, quick and light, then paused—ears twitching. In the underbrush, golden eyes blinked once. The fox sprang. There was a thump, the rustle of struggle, then nothing. Only silence again, heavy and old.

Then, the rhythm of hooves—three sets—broke the quiet. Branches stirred as the horses emerged, breath steaming, their steps slow but steady over the frozen earth.

Eira rode near the middle, her posture tense but practiced. Her brown hair—wavy, almost curly—was tied back in a braid that had started to fray. She was thinner now, her frame worn down by weeks of long travel and too few meals, though she still rode tall in the saddle. Her pale skin flushed pink from the cold, and her eyes—brown, touched with green at the center—looked ahead. Tired but watchful.

Early September 2034 

The journey began in Portland. 

They rode out just after dawn, when the mist still clung to the ruins of the city and the sound of hooves echoed like ghosts on cracked pavement. Eira remembered the way the horses’ breaths clouded in the cold air, the way her father adjusted the saddle one last time, the silent nod from her mother. No goodbyes. Just the road ahead. 

At first, they followed the old highway—empty, skeletal, marked by the husks of abandoned cars and graffiti fading under years of weather. When the road was open and the terrain predictable, they stayed high and fast. But danger had a way of moving unseen. When signs of raiders appeared—burned-out campfires, boot tracks, shattered windows—they veered off, trading speed for safety, slipping through lesser roads, side trails, forgotten logging paths swallowed by forest and silence. 

Some nights they slept in broken barns or crumbling houses, always taking turns on watch. Other times they strung up hammocks between trees, listening to distant shrieks or gunfire carried on the wind. Slavers had been spotted near Pendleton. Raiders stalked the canyon passes. And the infected… they were always somewhere. Always waiting. 

By the time they reached Boise, the horses were thinner, and so were they. 

From Boise, they turned north and began following the Snake River—a winding silver thread cutting through high plains and canyon walls. The river meant fresh water. Navigation. But it also meant exposure. The old towns that clung to its banks were bones picked clean. Danger didn't live in the shadows anymore. It lived in the open, waiting for anyone foolish enough to stop moving. 

Eira didn’t mark years by birthdays anymore. Twenty-five now, twenty-six in ten months—if she lived that long. These days she measured time in winters survived, scars earned, people buried. Jackson was still three weeks off, her father said. If nothing went wrong. 

Her horse, Bran, picked his way over the trail carefully, hooves crunching through the thin crust of ice. Her thighs ached from days in the saddle. Her hands were cracked beneath her gloves, and her breath came in slow plumes through the scarf pulled tight over her face. 

Behind her rode her mother, Thea—eyes always scanning, mouth a line carved from stone. At fifty, she carried herself with quiet authority, her posture straight despite the miles. Gray threaded through her dark hair, pulled into a severe knot at the base of her neck. Her face was all angles now—sharp cheekbones, wind-chapped skin, eyes that missed nothing.

Ahead was her father, Stefan, machete strapped to his side, flanks shifting as he checked the woods with each step. He was broad-shouldered and tall, still strong at fifty-nine, though his movements had grown more deliberate over the years. His beard, mostly white now, clung to the last hints of brown near his jaw.

They had been running for two days. 

Not from people this time. Not exactly. From what the boy had brought with him. 

Flashback: Three Days Ago 

He was young. Maybe fifteen. Sick, coughing blood. Said he was alone. Said he’d escaped a horde. Eira had given him water. 

That night, the depot burned. 

The boy turned. Fast. Bones cracked, voice broke, and then it wasn’t his voice anymore. The shrieks brought others. More than they could count. They ran. Lost their tent. Their food. Spike, her dog, tried to hold the line. Eira still didn’t know if he died fighting or running. 

She hadn’t cried. Not then. 

Back to Present 

Now the sky was heavy and pale, clouds bruised with snow. They hadn’t spoken in hours. Words had become luxuries, spent only when needed. 

Eira glanced over her shoulder. Nothing but trees. 

She didn’t trust it. 

Ahead, the land sloped upward. They were now moving into the foothills leading out of Boise, where pine and fir thickened the ridges and the land began to roll higher, colder. In the old world, this had been wildfire country—remote, forested, dry in summer and dangerous in fall. Firewatch towers dotted the region, tall wooden sentinels meant to catch smoke before flame. One of those towers now jutted above the trees, skeletal against the sky. Its legs were wide, braced against the snow. The top was blackened, scorched, but still standing. 

Thea spotted it first and pointed. No words. 

They circled wide, slow. The fence at the base sagged open. The lock had rusted away years ago. Stefan searched the nearby shed: no bodies, no tracks. That was the new version of safe, at least for tonight. 

They dismounted. Eira winced as her feet hit the ground. Bran huffed beside her. She touched his neck, whispered something she barely heard herself. 

Inside the cabin at the top of the tower, they found a mattress, a broken desk, a radio that wouldn’t speak, and a window patched with plywood. It didn’t matter. 

No blood. No bones. That was enough. 

Thea hung blankets. Stefan set the tripwire. Eira sat near the window, watching the woods stretch forever. She imagined them swallowing the road, the horses, her parents. Her. 

Dinner was quiet. Beans, something meaty. She wasn’t hungry. Ate anyway. 

When she turned toward her pack, Thea placed something on it without speaking. A packet of batteries. 

For the MP3 player. 

Eira stared. Then nodded once. Nothing else was needed. 

The night crept in. The wind picked up. The tower creaked. 

Eira curled beneath her blanket, eyes on the ceiling. The amber pendant at her neck was warm from her skin. Her breath slowed. 

Somewhere in the trees, something moved. 

But for now, they were still. 

And stillness, in this world, was the closest thing to peace. 

Thea didn’t sleep right away. 

She sat near the door with her rifle laid across her knees, her back pressed to the cold wall of the firewatch tower. The wind slipped through the cracks like fingers testing the seams of an old coat. Her eyes, sharp even in low light, stayed on Eira. 

Her daughter’s breath came slow now. Measured. Her face turned slightly toward the wall, curls falling in front of her eyes, one hand tucked beneath her chin like she was younger than she was. The blanket rose and fell, rhythm steady. But Thea didn’t trust steady. Not anymore. 

Eira looked small when she slept. Vulnerable in a way that made something in Thea’s chest twist. It hadn’t always been like this—this silence, this distance, this hard line behind Eira’s eyes. But the world didn’t take things all at once. It carved them away piece by piece. 

When the world fell apart, she had nothing but her husband, a book deal, and their farm. 

Eira had been born in Portland in the summer of 2009—back when the world still felt big and ordinary, back when Thea thought she could balance deadlines with diapers and still make it work. That year had been full of promise. A new baby, a rural property in the works, and Stefan talking about leaving the university to focus on writing his own papers from home. 

But everything changed just four years later. 

The outbreak came fast—merciless and without warning. Thea remembered watching the news with Eira asleep on her chest, the headlines mutating by the hour. Streets locked down. Airports shut. Whole cities lost. But the farm and its fences held, tucked far from the chaos of sirens and screams. They were lucky. Or maybe just isolated enough to stay overlooked. 

And for a time, Thea let herself believe they’d be safe out there. 

Eira was only four when the world ended. Too young to understand why they couldn’t go to town anymore. Why her parents suddenly whispered in the hall and triple-checked every door. 

But Thea remembered her at seven—barefoot in the summer dirt, a crooked basket of plums swinging from her arm. She remembered her laughter. Her wildness. The way she used to hum while shelling peas beside her grandfather, the same melody over and over, like a thread through the seasons. 

That sound—Eira’s humming—was gone now. Buried beneath winters and the weight of lost innocence no one dared name aloud. 

Thea’s fingers tightened slightly around the rifle. 

She had watched Eira bleed without screaming. Watched her walk back to the house without crying. The pain hadn’t broken her—it had buried her. 

Now Thea gave her batteries like offerings. Each one a quiet I love you. Each one a silent I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you that day. It was the only language she trusted not to break between them. 

She looked away finally, her gaze slipping to the frost gathering at the corners of the plywood window. There were no lights out there. No safety. Just cold, and trees, and the ghosts they carried. 

But Eira was still breathing. 

And for tonight, that was enough. 

She stood slowly, knees stiff from the cold, and made her way to the door. The handle was icy beneath her fingers as she opened it and stepped out onto the narrow deck that circled the tower. 

Stefan was already there, leaning on the railing with his back to her, breath curling in the air like smoke. He didn’t turn when she joined him. 

“She asleep?” he asked quietly. 

Thea nodded. “yup.” 

They stood in silence for a moment, watching the forest stretch out below them—black trees, silver frost, the vast and terrible quiet of winter. 

“We’ll follow the ridgeline tomorrow,” Stefan said. “Keep Jackson to our northwest. If we’re lucky, we’ll find that old fire trail before dark.” 

Thea glanced at him. “And if we’re not?” 

He shrugged. “Then we sleep cold again. But we keep moving.” 

She nodded once. The wind tugged at her coat. 

“She’s holding together better than I thought,” Stefan murmured, almost to himself. But he didn’t look at Thea when he said it. Couldn’t. The shame coiled tight in his chest—the kind that didn’t leave room for breath. Eira had been so brave that night. And he? A man who once lectured halls full of students couldn’t even reach for his gun. Couldn’t protect his own blood. He saw the memory every time he looked at her, so sometimes he just... didn’t. 

He was angry too—angry at himself, for not listening to Liv and Daniel when they said staying was suicide. For choosing pride and fences over flight. For thinking he could science their way out of fear. And now, every mile they walked, every night they didn’t die, felt like borrowed time—paid for with something he hadn’t earned. 

“No,” Thea said, eyes distant. “She’s just quieter about falling apart.” 

Stefan exhaled through his nose. He didn’t argue. 

They stood together in the cold, not touching, not speaking further. Just watching the dark. Just listening. 

For now, the forest held its breath. 

It had been months ago, back at the farm, when Liv and Daniel made their final plea. 

"We can't keep pretending this place will hold," Daniel had said, his voice sharp with frustration. "The fences are rotting. The raids are getting closer. We need to go—before they decide to come back in force." 

Stefan had crossed his arms. "And go where? To a QZ that might not exist? To strangers who will take one look at us and see targets, not allies?" 

"To somewhere with people," Liv snapped. "Somewhere not buried in denial." 

Thea had stood between them, arms wrapped tight around herself, trying to stay calm. "You're not wrong," she'd said. "But you're not right either." 

Daniel’s eyes had flicked to the farmhouse behind them. “You think this place is worth dying for?” 

Stefan stepped forward, jaw tight. “We buried my father here. Her mother. This land has our blood in it. That means something.” 

“It means ghosts,” Liv said coldly. “And Eira isn’t one of them. Not yet.” 

Thea flinched at that, but didn’t speak. 

Daniel softened, just a fraction. “Come with us,” he said. “You don’t have to stay. You don’t have to die for stubbornness.” 

But Stefan had already looked away, hands curled into fists. “This is our home.” 

“And what happens when they come back?” Liv asked. “When they want more than food?” 

Thea had closed her eyes then. Just for a moment. 

When she opened them, her voice was flat. “Then we’ll do what we always do. Survive.” 

It was the last real conversation they ever had. 

Liv and Daniel left the next morning. 

Eira never heard the fight. And they never told her everything.  

Chapter Text

The forest thinned. They had ridden for about 27–30 days—Eira couldn't keep track anymore. Her father had claimed that riding to Jackson would take 32 to 47 days, but that calculation seemed more naive with each day that passed. 

Snow had settled in the branches overnight, muffling every step, every breath. The sky above was the dull silver of frozen river water, and the silence clung close, like fabric soaked through with cold. But beneath it all—beneath the ache and the quiet—something new crept in around the edges. 

“I think we’re close to the Rocky Mountains,” Stefan murmured behind her, eyes fixed on the snow-lined horizon. “Feels like it.” 

Thea didn’t miss a beat. “Feel it or know it?” she snapped, voice edged with exhaustion. Not even a glance his way. Just that brittle, tired sharpness she’d worn more and more lately—tired of riding, tired of the silence, tired of dreaming about a place that felt farther away every damn day. 

Hope. Or something like it. 

They found the river trail by mid-morning. A narrow path hugging the icy edge of a winding stream, hemmed in by brush and slick rock. Someone had traveled it recently—faint boot prints and a torn scrap of cloth snagged on a bramble. Stefan crouched near the water, touching the marks with two fingers. 

"This could be Snake River," he murmured, unfolding the battered map from his coat pocket. "Hopefully. If we’re lucky." 

"Southwest," he said. "Maybe two, three days ahead. Could be hunters. Could be travelers." 

"Could be worse," Thea muttered. 

They moved on. 

The trail didn’t promise safety, but it promised movement. Progress. That was enough. 

Eira stayed near the back, Bran plodding steady beneath her. Her muscles ached from the cold, but she said nothing. Instead, she let her mind drift into old words—printed ones, the kind that smelled like dust and library shelves. 

"Ten most common ways to die in the wild," she recited silently. "One: exposure. Two: infection. Three: dehydration. Four: injury without treatment. Five: predation. Six: food poisoning. Seven: drowning. Eight: getting lost. Nine: fire. Ten: bad luck." 

The list had been in a wilderness survival book her father once gave her, back when things like frostbite and bear attacks felt like the worst-case scenario. Before infected were even a word she knew. 

She kept going. 

"Worst diseases to have in the wild: tetanus, sepsis, pneumonia, dysentery, hepatitis A. Anything with fever and no antibiotics." 

It soothed her, somehow—categorizing danger. Naming it. Pretending knowledge could keep her alive. 

Her parents didn’t speak. They all knew the rhythm by now: conserve energy, watch the trees, listen for what doesn’t belong. 

Eira snorted softly to herself. One book hadn’t made the list, but she remembered it anyway—"Common Field Ailments and Remedies." Somewhere near the back, in the fine print, it warned of an easily overlooked but dangerous risk: constipation. Prolonged dehydration, too much dried meat, not enough fiber. 

She thought: it would be a really stupid way to die. Painful. Slow. Awkward as hell. 

And real. Especially out here. 

Eira broke from the trail for a moment, guiding Bran up a narrow rise just a few feet above the river path. From here, she could see more of the tree line—the way the pines folded into each other like a wall of spears. The cold bit harder up here, exposed to the wind, and her eyes watered from it. But she stayed. 

Stillness wasn’t safety. Not always. 

She let her gaze scan the shadows, the edges, the places people forgot to look. Her father had always told her: danger doesn’t announce itself. It waits. 

Something shifted near the base of the trees. 

Movement. Small, deliberate. 

She tensed, hand resting on the strap of her rifle. But what stepped into view was not a threat. 

A fox. 

Thin, with a coat mottled by winter and hunger. It stood on the snow for a moment, watching her with unblinking yellow eyes. Then it turned and disappeared into the brush without a sound. 

She watched the space it had been, frowning slightly. 

It hadn’t seemed afraid of her. Just looked. Like it knew better. 

Maybe it did. Wild animals didn’t fear the living the same way anymore. Not since the world changed. Maybe now they looked down on humans—no longer the predators we once were. We had become something else. Quieter, smaller. 

But Eira was sure of one thing: the infected, for all their horror, did not act with malice. They were brutal, yes. Ruthless. But not cruel. 

The real danger was meeting a stranger in the wild. Not knowing what they were capable of. What their intent was. The dead would tear you apart. 

The living could take their time. Take joy in the pain they inflict. 

She’d met men like that. Ones who didn’t just hurt—they enjoyed the echo of it. The long, hollow aftermath. The memory that crawled under your skin and stayed. The infected didn’t know what they were doing. But the living? The living chose their actions. Painfully aware of the consequences but not caring for the outcome. 

Eira blinked hard and shook her head, as if to scatter the thought. That familiar weight had crept in again—uninvited, quiet, cold as the snow on her boots. She wished she could write it out, lock it down on a page like she used to. Trap it in ink and margins, keep it folded where it couldn’t touch her. 

But the notebook was packed. And the cold had stiffened her fingers. 

She sighed, turned Bran back down the rise, and rejoined the trail. 

Her parents were just ahead. They hadn’t noticed she’d split off. Or if they had, they were too busy bickering to care. 

“The compass isn’t right,” Stefan was saying. “It keeps drifting. I’m telling you, the ridge should be east, not south.” 

“It’s not the compass, it’s the clouds,” Thea snapped. “You’re reading shadows, not direction.” 

“I’ve been navigating longer than you’ve been growing tomatoes.” 

Their breath fogged as they walked. Between them, a radio—one of those hand-cranked relics from before the fall—hung silent from Thea’s pack. 

“Try the radio again,” Stefan said. 

Thea huffed but complied, pulling it out and winding the handle. The crank creaked, slow and stubborn. 

No signal. 

Nothing but static. 

Just the wind, the cold, and the argument trailing behind them like smoke. 

Eira cleared her throat gently, pulling Bran up alongside them. "Maybe we should try getting to some higher ground?" she said. "Or... I could climb a tree again. Like last time." 

They both turned toward her—Thea with a furrowed brow, Stefan mid-argument and still frowning from the static. 

For a second, neither of them responded. 

Then Stefan grunted. "Might not be the worst idea." 

Thea gave Eira a look—half concern, half reluctant approval. "Not too high. If you fall, we're not carrying you." 

Eira nodded once, already scanning the treeline ahead for something tall and stable. Anything to escape the bickering and feel useful again. 

She clicked her tongue and nudged Bran into a steady trot, moving ahead of her parents along the narrowing trail. The snow crunched louder here, packed tight from the cold, muffled only slightly by the overhang of branches. 

Her eyes searched left and right, scanning for a tree with low enough limbs to climb and a vantage point that might give them clarity—or at least a few bars of static that meant someone else was out there. Somewhere. 

Most of the trees were too slender or too thick with dead branches. But maybe farther up... maybe one would work. 

Bran huffed under her. She leaned forward in the saddle, muttering, "Let’s find something solid, boy. Just once." 

She rode a little farther than she meant to. The trail curved, and then broke open into a frost-slicked clearing where the pines stood wider apart. 

That’s when she saw it. 

At first, it looked like a lump at the base of a tree. Something hunched or fallen, half-covered in snow. But as Bran stepped closer, Eira felt her gut twist. It was the way the snow clung to the shape—too still. Too wrong. 

A body. No, not just a body. 

An infected. 

Tied to the trunk of the tree with thick rope across the chest and arms. Frozen in place, lips curled back over broken teeth. The skin was blotched with infection and frost, face slack but not gone. It hadn’t been there long. A few days, maybe. 

Whoever they had been, they had made the choice not to run. Not to fight. They had tied themselves there, but for some reason they hadn't pulled the trigger in time. 

Eira sat still in the saddle, staring. 

They had tried to be brave. Tried to make the hard call. But when it came down to it—when it came to that one final moment. They couldn't. 

And now they were... this. 

She swallowed hard. The cold was worse now, or maybe it was just in her bones. 

She turned Bran around without another word and started back toward her parents. 

When she reached them, she didn’t dismount. 

“There’s one,” she said quietly. “Tied to a tree. It turned.” 

Stefan’s expression darkened, and Thea’s eyes sharpened. 

“Show us,” he said. 

They followed her back to the clearing. When they saw it, no one spoke for a moment. Just the wind in the pines and the faint creak of rope. 

Stefan stepped forward. 

“We can’t leave it like that,” he said. Then he glanced at Eira and added, “Can’t risk using bullets on the one. We might need them—and the sound might get us noticed.” 

He pulled his machete from his belt. The blade glinted cold and sure. 

One clean motion. One less shadow in the woods. 

No one said a word as he cleaned the blade and stepped back. 

Thea laid a hand briefly on his arm. 

Eira stared at the tree. The rope still moved slightly in the breeze. 

She didn’t say it aloud, but she thought it: 

At least now, they were free. 

Afterward, Eira rode ahead again. The silence from her parents this time felt heavier than the snow. She kept scanning the woods, farther and farther, until she found it—about twenty or thirty minutes later. 

A Ponderosa pine. Sturdy. Tall. Its bark flaked in cinnamon-colored plates, and the limbs began just low enough to make the first climb possible. 

She tied Bran to a nearby shrub and approached. Cold stung her fingers as she climbed, bark scraping her gloves. But the higher she went, the clearer the world became. 

When she reached the top, her breath caught. 

The view was incredible. 

Endless stretches of snow-brushed forest. Below, winding through the land like a scar of ice, was the familiar shape of a river—Snake River, she realized. And there—looming above it all—the jagged silhouette of the mountains. They looked like a sleeping giant curled against the horizon, closer than she’d expected. Closer than her father had dared to hope. 

A silence that felt ancient hung over everything. And below, her parents—small, almost indistinct—waited. 

She didn’t wave. Just sat for a moment, wind whispering past her ears, and let herself feel like something other than a girl on the run. Stray strands of hair had come loose from her braid and danced around her face, catching on the updraft like fine thread. One curled across her mouth; she pushed it away absently, eyes never leaving the horizon. 

A faint echo broke the stillness below—her name, called out once, then again. 

She sighed and began her careful descent. The bark bit at her gloves as she climbed down, the cold threading deeper with every branch she passed. 

By the time her boots hit the snow, her parents were already approaching. 

"Could you tell where we are?" Stefan asked, his eyes searching her face. 

She nodded. "You were right. We’re following the Snake River. I saw the bend—it matches the map. And the mountains... they’re not far now." 

For the first time in days, her father allowed himself a quiet smile. Thea exhaled, tension still clinging to her shoulders but just a shade lighter. 

They were closer than any of them had dared to believe. 

Stefan glanced at the sky, already streaked with late-afternoon gray. "It’s getting dark. We should find a place to camp for the night," he said. "Tomorrow, we look for Pinedale." 

It took another half hour of slow riding and scanning the thinning woods before they found it—a small, weatherworn trapper’s cabin nestled between a crescent of boulders and a dense stand of pine. Its roof sagged under the weight of old snow, and the door hung slightly ajar, creaking when Stefan pushed it open with the barrel of his rifle. 

Inside, it was dark and musty, but intact. One rusted stove. A cracked window. A cot with the mattress long gone but the frame still steady. Someone had left a stack of firewood in the corner—old but mostly dry. 

“This’ll do,” Thea muttered, already pulling off her gloves to check the stove. 

Eira stepped in last, her eyes lingering on the faded drawings etched into one log wall. A man’s name. A set of tally marks. A crude map that ended in nothing. 

They made camp in silence, grateful for four walls—even if they creaked like an old bed. 

Eira sat near the fire, hands wrapped around a dented tin mug of lukewarm water and let herself believe—for just a second—that things were going well. It was the first time in days she could remember feeling almost safe. Almost warm. The kind of moment that felt like it should be treasured. 

Too well, she thought. It was going too well. 

It wasn’t often they got to sleep in a shelter that still had four walls and a roof that mostly held. Not anymore. 

Her father sat down beside her, careful not to touch her before making his presence known. The firelight danced in his tired eyes. 

"We're not far now, kid," Stefan said softly. "You'll see—in a few days, we’ll be in Jackson. We’ll be safe for real this time." 

He meant it as comfort. A promise. But Thea, seated across the fire, only stared into the flames. 

It wasn’t one event. It was everything at once: the garden gone to frost, the fences sagging, the blood on her daughter’s shirt that wouldn’t wash out. And then the voice—crackling from a hand-cranked radio like a promise they didn’t deserve but couldn’t ignore. 

That was the day they packed what they could and left the farm behind. The only home Eira had ever known. 

She hadn’t cried when they left. But Thea had. 

The dream 

That night, Eira dreamt. 

She was a snow-white rabbit weaving through drifts of moonlit snow, her breath little clouds puffing with each joyous bound. The world was quiet, glittering, impossibly gentle—every branch dusted in silver, every shadow soft. She darted between trees like a flicker of thought, light on her feet, heart wild with a giddy, aimless freedom. 

She wasn’t thinking. Wasn’t watching. Just moving. Blissfully unaware. 

Then—something shifted. 

The air changed. Stilled. A breath before the storm. 

She heard it: the hiss of an arrow, impossibly loud in the hush. A tear in the sky. 

She turned. 

Too late. 

Darkness bloomed like ink spilled in snow. 

And the dream ended. 

Chapter Text

The fire was still burning. 

Her parents had slept in shifts to keep it alive through the night—adding logs when the wind picked up, stirring embers when the cold crept close to their sleeping bags. The steady crackle was the first sound Eira registered as she blinked awake, a low murmur wrapped around her like a borrowed blanket. 

She didn’t move at first. Just watched the flames and listened. 

Outside, boots crunched softly in the snow. Her father. 

She pulled on her coat and stepped out into the crisp morning light. The trees shimmered under a thin crust of frost. Stefan was crouched by the snare line he’d set the night before, his breath fogging as he worked. 

He held up a rabbit. Small. Not white like the one in Eira’s dream, but still. Dead. 

“Caught us something,” he said, glancing at her over his shoulder. “Won’t go far, but it’s food.” 

Thea stood nearby, arms folded, watching both the woods and her husband. 

They made breakfast behind the cabin, quiet and quick. The rabbit cooked over the fire in a battered pan, the scent thin but warm. Steam curled up like a promise, but Eira barely touched her share. 

She stared at the meat, then past it, back toward the tree line. 

She could still feel the dream clinging to her ribs. 

White fur. Open snow. That giddy, dangerous freedom. And then— 

The hiss of an arrow splitting the silence. 

She swallowed hard, pushed the food away. 

By morning, the sky had turned brittle with frost and light. They left the trapper’s cabin without fanfare—just a last check for anything salvageable, a tightened strap, a few soft words to the horses. Then they were moving again. 

The snow was shallower here, but the cold bit deeper, sliding under coats and into bones. They followed the narrowing trail as it twisted down through pine-dense ravines and opened into long stretches of empty white. Every hour brought new terrain—sometimes ankle-deep powder, sometimes hard-packed ice. Always silent. Always shifting. 

They crossed into Wyoming sometime that afternoon. 

There was no sign to mark the border. No checkpoint, no fence. Just a slow change in the land: hills steepening, trees thinning, the open silence growing sharper. The wind carried the mountains now—cold and high and full of distance. 

They stopped briefly on a rise where the trees broke open and the river stretched out far below. Stefan scanned the horizon and pointed. “That’s the Bridger Range,” he murmured. “Pinedale’s close.” 

Thea didn’t speak, but Eira saw the flicker of recognition in her eyes. Hope, tempered with wariness. 

They descended toward the valley, the snow shallower here but the wind sharper. Closer to town, the path narrowed again—through brush, between crumbling outbuildings long abandoned. The silence grew heavier with each step, like the world was holding its breath. 

Just before they reached the outskirts, they found the sign. 

Near dusk the following day, they reached the outskirts of what used to be Pinedale. 

The town sat huddled beneath the mountains, half-swallowed by trees and silence. Most of the buildings were intact but abandoned—windows black, doors missing, roofs bowed under snow. Signs of life, but not recent life. No smoke. No sound. 

At the edge of town, nailed crookedly to a leaning power pole, they found the remains of a FEDRA sign. 

The top half was ripped away by wind or weather or something worse. What was left read: 

“QUARANTINE ZONE 13 – PINEDALE 
MANDATORY SCREENING – CHECKPOINT B 
TRAVELERS MUST—” 

The rest was gone. Ripped or rotted or worse. 

A faded FEDRA insignia curled in the corner, peeling like dead skin. Below it, someone had scrawled in black marker: 
“WE DIED FOR NOTHING.” 

Stefan stared at it too long. 

Eira felt the quiet coil of dread begin to twist behind her ribs. 

“Guess we’re here,” Thea said, voice quiet. 

“What do you think happened here?” Eira asked. 

Thea glanced around the hollow streets. “Same thing that happened everywhere else.” 

They approached slowly, ears pricked, listening—waiting for anything. A sound. A shadow. A sign of life or danger. 

But the town held its breath. 

When everything seemed still, Eira allowed herself to look. 

The buildings were sun-bleached and slumped under snow. Storefronts with empty windows. A rusted swing set creaking in the breeze. It must have been full of life once—children, parents, pets. The quiet thrum of daily noise: doors slamming, dogs barking, someone calling across the street. All of it gone now, swallowed by time and frost. 

Pinedale had become a shell. But echoes clung to the walls. 

Thea broke the silence first. "We should rest a while," she said, dismounting with a soft grunt. "Turn on the radio. See if the signal's still out there." 

Stefan nodded and pulled the hand-crank radio from his pack. He set it on the hood of a long-dead car and began to wind. 

The static came first—thin and broken. Then, faintly, the words. 

"Come to Jackson. We have walls, food, safety... but most importantly of all—community." 

The voice cracked and faded, but the message lingered. 

Eira stood still, eyes fixed on the rusted sign of what used to be a diner. She knew that voice by heart now. The call that had started all of this. The promise they were still chasing. 

A promise that felt both too far and too close all at once. 

"That’s the clearest it’s ever come through," Stefan said, his voice low but tense. "We must be getting close." 

Eira glanced toward the row of buildings on the main street, their doors crooked, windows clouded with grime and frost. "I’m gonna look around," she said quietly, already stepping toward her horse. 

Thea frowned. "Eira, don’t. We don’t know what’s still hiding in this place." 

"I won’t go far," Eira promised. "I’ll be careful. Just want to pop my head into a few places—see if there’s anything useful. Or anything at all." 

Her father gave her a long look but said nothing. 

"Promise I’ll be safe," she added.  

With that, she swung back onto Bran and steered him slowly down the street, scanning the quiet shells of buildings like someone trying to remember a dream that almost meant something. 

She chose a small yellow house first. It sat slightly apart from the others, its siding sun-faded but still bright beneath the frost. A white porch wrapped around the front, and a swing hung crookedly from the beams, swaying just slightly in the breeze. 

It must have been lovely once. The kind of place with lemonade in summer and muddy boots in the hallway. Eira dismounted and approached quietly, each step soft on the snow-covered path. 

The front door had been busted in long ago, hanging crookedly on one hinge. She stepped over the splintered threshold and into the dim, musty air of the house. 

It looked like an older person had lived here—judging by the faded floral curtains, the thick armchairs covered in dust, and the brass lamp still resting on a lace-doily-covered table. Time had settled in every corner. 

In the hallway, a cluster of smashed picture frames lay scattered across the floor. Eira crouched and picked one up carefully, brushing the glass away to get a better look. 

A family stared back at her. A father, a mother, a grandmother, and two small children arranged stiffly in front of a fireplace. They were smiling, but the expressions didn’t reach their eyes. Something about it felt... staged. Like they had posed too long. Like they’d forgotten what happiness felt like and were only trying to remember the shape of it. 

She set the photo back down gently and stood. The silence pressed in close around her again. 

There wasn’t much of worth in the house. She wandered through the rooms, careful not to disturb the settled dust. Near the back, in a corner of the living room, she found an old Singer sewing machine—one of the kinds with a foot pedal. Next to it, a tin filled with thread, needles, and scraps of cloth. She pocketed a few of the more usable items. 

"At least it’s something," she muttered. 

She stepped into what might have once been a guest room. Dust coated the dresser and curtains hung limp at the windows, but it was the tall mirror in the corner that caught her eye. The glass was cracked across the middle, the silvering peeling at the edges, but her reflection stared back—fragmented but clear enough.

Eira took a step closer, she looked... tired.

Her cheeks had thinned, the fullness that once gave her face a softness long gone. Her skin, pale and wind-bitten, looked more weathered now—less like the girl she remembered, more like someone molded by hard roads and hunger. She used to be pretty, she thought. Back on the farm, when her hair had shine and her ribs didn’t show.

She reached up, brushing at the dirt near her temple, only to have a loose curl fall across her cheek. Her braid had started to fray again.

She looked away.

She was about to leave when she noticed a door she’d missed. It opened into a small office, surprisingly well-preserved. The desk was old but sturdy, and the shelves were lined with dusty books and loose papers. Whoever had lived here must have had an important job once—maybe a town official, maybe just someone who liked to feel in control. 

On the desk, she found a collection of ink bottles, pencils, and a stack of half-filled notebooks. She flipped through a few—ledgers, to-do lists, notes that had stopped mid-sentence. 

She gathered them up. 

She would rip out the filled pages later. The empty ones were what mattered now. A place to write again. To keep her thoughts folded somewhere other than her chest. 

Eira glanced back down at the desk. It had several drawers—most of them open, picked clean long ago. But one remained stubbornly shut. Locked. 

She crouched, ran her fingers along its edge. 

She didn’t know why, but she needed to see what was inside. There was something about a locked drawer in a house full of opened ones that made her stomach tighten. 

She whispered to herself, "I need to get this open." 

Turning on her heel, she walked back through the house into the living room. Against the soot-streaked hearth stood a rusted fireplace set, mostly untouched. She grabbed the fire pick—its handle cold and worn smooth from age. 

It would do. Or at least, she hoped it would. 

Back in the office, she crouched in front of the drawer and wedged the fire pick into the narrow seam. The metal groaned against old wood. She bit her lip, braced her weight, and forced it sideways with a sharp twist. 

The lock cracked with a sudden snap. 

The drawer creaked open. 

Inside lay a small, leather-bound journal—its edges worn smooth, the pages yellowed but intact. Eira picked it up carefully, flipping through. The handwriting was neat, deliberate. Notes about rationing, about neighbors who had gone silent, about trying to protect the last pieces of what had once been a life. 

Tucked inside the back cover were two strips of antibiotics wrapped in wax paper, and a folded note: "If anyone finds this, take what you need. Use it for someone you love." 

Beneath the journal, she found a small toolkit—neatly packed, the kind used for delicate mechanical repairs. Screwdrivers, oil, replacement parts for something old and stubborn. It wasn’t much, but it was the kind of thing that might come in handy down the line—or make a decent trade, if it came to that. 

And nestled at the very back, wrapped in an old handkerchief, was a compact handgun. Loaded. Ready. 

She exhaled slowly, the weight of it all settling into her palms. A story. A weapon. A chance. 

Later, back outside with her parents, Eira handed over the journal, the antibiotics, and the toolkit. Her father turned the little screwdriver over in his fingers, nodding once with approval. Thea inspected the pills, her face unreadable but her shoulders relaxing just slightly. 

"You sure you’re okay going into these places alone?" Thea asked, still wary. 

Eira just nodded. "There’s still useful stuff out here. We just have to be willing to look for it." 

She didn’t mention the gun. 

It sat in her coat, tucked close against her ribs. A private reassurance. She had a knife, sure—but it wouldn’t be enough if more than one infected came at her. Not if she was alone. Not if she was left behind again. 

The gun was hers. Just in case.  

After a moment of quiet by her parents' side, Eira decided to check one more place before they moved on. 

"One last stop," she said. 

She rode back into the heart of the town and approached a squat, weather-worn supermarket. The front doors were still intact—but chained shut, padlocked tight. The windows were smeared with frost and grime, and no easy path inside presented itself. 

But as she circled around the building, she spotted a narrow fire escape ladder clinging to the rear wall. It was partially collapsed, but low enough to reach if she climbed a stack of crates nearby. 

With a glance over her shoulder, she climbed. The metal rungs creaked under her weight, but held. At the top, a small window gaped open—its latch rusted, glass cracked. She slid through, boots crunching as they landed on the dusty tile floor of the back storage room. 

The supermarket swallowed her in shadow and silence. 

Eira reached into her coat and clicked on her flashlight. The narrow beam cut through the dark, sweeping across rows of toppled shelves and scattered debris. Dust floated in the air like ash, undisturbed for years. The light revealed faded signage, a trail of old footprints, and empty cans crushed under collapsed displays. 

Eira stepped cautiously onto the creaking floor. It had clearly been sturdier once—now every step groaned beneath her boots like it remembered better days. She moved carefully, her breath held tight, fearing that at any moment the worn boards might give way beneath her. 

She made her way along the upper floor, where a few rooms branched off from the main corridor. The remnants of a staff area—an old lunchroom with a broken microwave, a changing room lined with dented lockers, and a cramped office. Each space had been ransacked long ago. Drawers lay open, papers scattered, chairs overturned. Any supplies worth taking had been stripped away by someone else, sometime before. 

Still, she kept moving, scanning every corner with her flashlight, just in case. 

She stepped into the lunchroom. The air was thick with the stale scent of time and mildew. Dust clung to every surface, but the cupboards still hung on their hinges. Eira moved toward them, brushing aside cobwebs, and began opening each one. 

She hoped, irrationally, for coffee. Even some Lipton tea would be nice for a change. Something warm. Something familiar. She whispered the words to herself with a faint smile, as if saying them aloud might conjure the scent of steeped leaves or roasted beans. 

But each cupboard echoed with emptiness, save for a few cracked mugs and a rusted tin labeled Creamer. Long since spoiled, if there was anything left inside at all. 

Deciding she’d pushed her luck upstairs long enough, Eira moved toward the stairwell that led back down to the main floor. The door groaned as she opened it, and immediately, the structure of the staircase made her pause. 

The wood looked warped and splintered with rot, sagging dangerously as if barely held together. Eira stepped forward cautiously, realizing with a chill that the only thing that seemed to be keeping the whole stairwell from collapsing might have been the closed door itself. 

She held her breath and began to descend, each footfall slow and deliberate. The stairs creaked ominously, threatening to give way beneath her at any moment. 

She had just reached the bottom when a deep vibration trembled through the building—low and guttural, like the earth had exhaled beneath her feet. Eira froze, eyes darting upward. 

The ceiling groaned. 

Then it gave. 

A deafening crash tore through the silence as part of the upper floor collapsed, sending debris raining down. Eira barely managed to leap out of the way, the flashlight tumbling from her hand and skittering across the floor. Her left foot caught in the rubble—pinned for one agonizing second—before she yanked it free with a cry. 

Dust filled the air, choking and heavy. She coughed, stumbling backward, ears ringing. 

The building settled into silence once more, but everything felt more fragile now. More dangerous. 

Eira clenched her teeth and pressed her back against the wall, heart pounding. That had been too close. 

She found herself in a narrow hallway, dimly lit by the beam of her dropped flashlight. Two doors stood at either end—one marked Storage & Security, the other leading out into the store itself. The air was thick with dust and the faint scent of mildew. She listened for movement, waited for the groaning hush of settling debris, and then pushed herself away from the wall. 

Whichever way she chose, she’d need to move quickly. This place wasn’t going to hold much longer. 

She wondered whether her parents had heard the building coming apart. Even if they hadn’t heard the crash, they must have felt that vibration. It hadn’t felt like normal decay or shifting weight—it had felt unnatural. Like something deeper had shifted. Like something waking up. 

Eira opted for the door marked Storage & Security. The hinges groaned as she pushed it open, revealing a narrow hallway lit only by the jittery beam of her flashlight. Metal shelving units lined the walls, many of them overturned or empty. A busted security panel blinked dimly beside a locked cage door, long since deactivated. She stepped inside, eyes darting to the shadows, breath shallow. Whatever she was going to find, it needed to be fast.  

She walked deeper into the hallway, stopping when she reached a door marked with a peeling SECURITY sign. With one last look over her shoulder, she pushed it open. 

The room beyond was a mess—ransacked like the rest of the building—but something about the silence felt heavier here. Eira stepped inside, sweeping her flashlight across the wreckage. 

That’s when she saw them. 

Two corpses slumped against the far wall. Not infected. Not like the others. These were old, dry—security uniforms still clinging to their brittle frames. Their weapons were long gone, and their sidearms stripped. They hadn’t turned. They’d just... died. 

She stared for a long moment, her throat tightening. 

They had tried to hold the line. Tried to protect something, even if it hadn’t lasted. 

And no one had come for them. 

As she studied their uniforms, the brittle outlines of their gear, her eyes caught a glint of metal beneath one of their jackets. She knelt down and gently shifted the fabric. A walkie-talkie, still clipped to the guard’s belt. She reached for it, surprised it hadn’t already been taken. 

Could it still be working? 

She doubted it. The casing was scuffed and the battery indicator was dead. But something about it—its presence, the fact that it had lasted this long—felt significant. She turned it over in her hands, debating whether to try it. Even broken things could be useful after all. 

She scanned the room once more, the flashlight beam cutting across scattered debris and overturned filing cabinets. In a drawer half-hidden under a broken chair, she spotted a small package. Batteries—two of them, sealed in plastic and miraculously untouched. Eira grabbed them quickly, slipping them into her coat pocket with a flicker of relief. Power meant light. Power meant options. 

Satisfied that she'd found everything useful in the security room, Eira stepped back into the hallway and turned toward the door labeled Storage. This part of the building hadn’t been hit as hard—at least, not from what she could see. The shelves were half-empty, but not completely bare. Crates lay scattered across the floor, and pallets of water-damaged boxes still lined parts of the wall. 

She stepped cautiously inside, sweeping her flashlight slowly across the room. Dust motes spun in the light, but there was less debris here—less chaos. Someone had come through, yes, but not as desperate or as thorough as those who’d torn the upstairs apart. Maybe they hadn’t made it this far. Maybe they hadn’t had time. 

She stepped cautiously inside, sweeping her flashlight slowly across the room. Dust motes spun in the light, but there was less debris here—less chaos. Someone had come through, yes, but not as desperate or as thorough as those who’d torn the upstairs apart. Maybe they hadn’t made it this far. Maybe they hadn’t had time. 

Either way, it gave her hope. 

She flashed her light over the shelves, revealing a chaotic patchwork of contents. A lot of unmarked boxes—some filled with nothing but packing material, others sealed tight. She peeked into one and found an assortment of VHS tapes, long since obsolete. Useful once, maybe. A comfort. A connection. Now just dead weight. 

Most of it was the same: relics of a world that no longer needed them. But there was always the chance something practical had survived the chaos. She kept going. 

That’s when she spotted something that felt almost magical. 

Coffee. 

Her breath caught, and for a second she nearly laughed out loud. She half-sprinted toward the box it sat in, already tasting the warm bitterness on her tongue. But as she pulled it open, her heart sank. 

Whole beans. 

She stared at them for a long moment. They still worked fine—arguably tasted even better than ground coffee—but without something to grind with? Ugh. 

She let out a breath somewhere between amusement and frustration. Still, it was coffee. Worth its weight in trade, maybe. Worth something. 

She grabbed what she could in an old shopping basket she found tipped over nearby. With one hand, she tossed in the bag of coffee beans, and kept scanning. On a low shelf, nearly hidden behind a broken crate, she spotted a half-full can of lighter fluid. Next to it, a bundle of cloth scraps—grimy but usable. Further down, a few granola bars sat like relics on a dusty tray. She picked one up, squinted at the faded label, then wrinkled her nose. 

"Yeah... no thanks," she muttered, tossing it aside. 

She was about to turn and find an exit when something caught her eye—an odd splash of color amid the dust and shadows. She moved closer and saw the remains of a fallen endcap display. Scattered across the floor were cracked compacts, broken lipsticks, and dusty tubes of mascara. 

Makeup. 

She knelt down, fingertips brushing over a dented blush tin. It was useless now, of course. But once, it had meant something. A ritual. A comfort. A way to face the world and feel a little more human. She stared at the powders and brushes, wondering about the person who last touched them. 

She knew whatever was in this box probably was as deadly as the Cordyceps in its own way—poisonous in the right light, a kind of armor that didn’t protect, only disguised. But something caught her eye. An eyelash curler, intact, its sleek metal still glinting faintly under the dust. 

She blinked, surprised. She had read about them in an old magazine back on the farm—about twenty times, maybe more. It had been one of the few things she had to read when she wasn’t writing her own stories. A relic of a world that had once obsessed over lashes and liner, over beauty for beauty’s sake. 

She picked it up, weighing it in her hand. 

Maybe she'd have a reason to use it if they reached Jackson. Maybe she'd want to feel pretty again. Normal. Maybe. 

She doubted it. 

But she put it in her basket anyway. 

Just beside the display, partially hidden under a cracked mirror, she saw something else—a hairbrush. Simple. Worn. But intact. 

She reached for it without thinking. 

Her fingers had been her brush for weeks now, ever since her old one was lost to the cold and a rushing creek outside Portland. This one wasn’t special, but it was something. A small act of care. A piece of normal. 

She slid it into the basket and stood there for a long moment, surrounded by the ghosts of old habits, wondering what Jackson might actually look like. Wondering if, one day, she’d even care to brush her hair again for anything but practicality. 

Her basket was beginning to feel heavy. 

Eira adjusted the strap and looked toward the shattered hallway. She thought about going out through the main store floor, but she remembered the front doors—locked and chained from the outside. The same ones she had tried before climbing in through the fire escape. 

There had to be another way out. 

She turned back, flashlight sweeping the far corners of the storage room, hoping the building still held a secret exit. One more door. One more chance. 

And maybe—if she was lucky—it wouldn’t collapse on her this time. 

Chapter Text

Eira tightened her grip on the shopping basket, its weight dragging slightly against her arm. Inside, a walkie-talkie, a box of batteries, three packs of coffee beans, lighter fluid, an eyelash curler, and a hairbrush jostled gently with every step she took. Her flashlight beam quivered across the floor as she moved, searching for an exit. 

She remembered the supermarket’s front doors—locked, chained, unyielding. They hadn’t budged when she first arrived, and the fire escape she’d entered through was now out of reach, buried behind the collapsed stairwell. She needed another way out. 

Her light caught the far wall—and there it was. 

A large metal garage door dominated the space, wide enough to allow a delivery truck through. The kind of door built to roll up with a deep groan and flood the storage room with daylight. A faded logo—half-scratched away—sprawled across the top. 

This had been the loading dock. Her way out. 

"Now how to open it?" Eira muttered to herself, eyeing the heavy mechanism and rusted chain with a skeptical frown. 

She stepped up to the chain and gave it a cautious tug. The links groaned in protest, but they moved. This could work—if she pulled with everything she had. 

Just as she braced herself and wrapped both hands around the chain, a sound froze her in place. 

Voices. 

Muffled but close, just outside the loading dock door. 

She held her breath, every muscle going still as stone. Someone was out there. 

There was one—no, two. Actually, four men’s voices. Muffled but heated. They were fighting about something. Eira couldn’t make out the exact words, but the tone was unmistakable: harsh, angry, rising and falling in sharp bursts. 

She stepped back from the chain, breath shallow, ears straining. Whoever they were, they hadn’t heard her yet. 

Not yet. 

Just as she was about to press her ear against the cold metal of the garage door, it began to move. Slowly. Grinding and creaking as it rolled upward. 

Eira’s heart shot to her throat. She spun around, scanning the darkened room, then bolted for a stack of collapsed cardboard boxes near the far wall. They were old, half-crushed, but tall enough to give her cover. 

She ducked behind them just as a sliver of winter light pierced the room beneath the rising door. 

A man's voice cut through the cold air, sharp and annoyed. "There better be something good in here for you to drag our asses way out here." 

Another voice followed, lower and more defensive. "I told you, the place was untouched. Look at it. It’s a goldmine." 

Eira's breath caught. They were close now—boots crunching on loose gravel just beyond the threshold. 

She couldn’t see them from where she crouched, but the tone told her enough: two of them were angry, suspicious. The other two sounded smug. Too confident. 

And familiar—though not in the sense that she knew them. It was something deeper. A recognition in her gut. She had known men like them before. The kind who smiled too easily, made promises too smoothly. The kind who always wanted something. 

They made her skin prickle. 

The four men made their way into the space, voices echoing off the concrete and steel. None of them bothered to close the garage door behind them. Cold air poured in through the opening, wrapping around the dim, cluttered room like a second presence. 

“So what was it that you had to show us? It better be important. We’ve been out way too long already, and I’d like to get back to Maria,” one of the men said, his voice tight with impatience.

That voice carried a kind of authority—no-nonsense, worn by travel and responsibility. Eira couldn’t see him clearly, but through the narrow slits in the boxes, she caught the edge of a worn winter coat, the leather grip of a rifle slung over his shoulder.

When he stepped into the full shaft of light from the dock, she saw him properly: Tommy, average height but built sturdy, his long dark hair pulled back into a low tie, a trimmed beard dusted with gray around the edges of his mouth. His eyes were sharp, cautious, as if he’d learned the hard way never to trust peace. The layered clothes and scuffed gloves he wore spoke of both experience and caution. The scoped rifle at his back looked like it belonged there—an old habit he hadn’t broken, maybe never would.

Next to him stood Seth—tall and slope-shouldered, with pale, weathered skin and gray hair slicked back over a balding crown. His coat was too thin for the weather, hanging loose around his frame. He looked older than Tommy, and more uncertain, his hands fidgeting as the argument escalated. His boots crunched as he shifted his weight anxiously, eyes darting from face to face.

The other two men—the smug ones—moved with different energy. Louder. Looser. Eira didn’t need to see their faces to recognize the type. Swagger and selfishness masked as confidence. Through the gap in the boxes, she saw his hand reach behind his belt, fumbling for something. 

A chill licked down her spine. 

Was that a—? 

But before she could finish the thought, a new sound shattered her focus. 

Her father’s voice. 

Muffled. Faint. But unmistakable. 

It came from outside—beyond the open garage door. Her parents had come looking for her. Of course they had. 

Her father rode up on Jasper, their beautiful chestnut horse with a white star on his forehead, the sound of hooves crunching on icy asphalt drawing the attention of everyone inside. 

He rode into clear view, his posture alert but open. He had thought the creaking door might have been Eira—but he was wrong. 

The four men inside turned sharply. Hands went to belts and jackets. Guns were drawn with practiced ease. 

"Who are you? Why are you here?" one of them barked. 

Her father raised his hands slowly, voice calm but firm. "I'm looking for my daughter. I'm sure she went through here." 

One of the smug men scoffed and shouted, "There ain't no little girl running around here, daddio. Get lost." 

"Are you sure, its her horse out infront of the store?" Her father answered, defiantly, searching the mens eyes for truth. 

The smug man who had shouted kept his back turned to Eira’s hiding place. She watched through the narrow gap between the boxes as he mumbled something under his breath. She couldn’t make out all the words, but caught fragments—something about not needing this, a waste of bullets. 

Her breath hitched. Was he really—? 

Before she could piece it together, he acted. 

In one swift motion, he drew the weapon from behind his belt and fired. One shot tore into her father's shoulder. The second struck his neck. 

The sound rang louder than anything Eira had ever heard in her life. She watched him slide off Jasper, body limp, foot catching in the stirrup. 

Jasper screamed. Bolted. 

Her father’s body dragged behind. 

She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. 

Her hand flew to her mouth. She bit down on her own fingers to stay silent. Blood spilled in her throat. 

“What the hell are you doing?!” 

“He wasn’t doing anything!” 

More yelling. Accusations. Guns drawn now on the other two men—men from Jackson, she would later learn. One named Tommy. 

“We’re done with how you and Maria run things, Tommy. Time for new blood.” 

The man addressed—Tommy—blinked, stunned, but managed to muster a dry, bitter smirk. "Oh, really? And that would be who exactly?" 

Tommy narrowed his eyes, taking a half step forward. "Who else is with you? You alone? What’s your plan here?" His voice held no panic—just fury, measured and cold. 

The smug men exchanged glances. One shrugged. The other muttered something vague about keeping things clean, about not needing help. 

But none of it registered. Not the threats. Not the betrayal. Not even the raised guns. 

Because her dad was gone. 

Dragged off like nothing. 

Her world splintered. 

She stood. Walked. Barely felt her legs moving. Raised her gun. Her fingers shook but her face didn’t. 

The man who killed him didn’t see her coming. 

She pulled the trigger. 

One clean shot. Straight to the back of his head. 

The man crumpled instantly. 

Chaos erupted. 

The second smug man spun around, startled, and fired blindly. The bullet tore through Eira’s right shoulder. She stumbled back, pain blinding her, but stayed on her feet. 

Tommy snapped out of his shock, his own weapon rising with practiced speed. He fired twice, and the second smug man dropped, lifeless. 

Eira staggered forward, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her right arm throbbed, hot and wet, and she could barely feel her fingers around the gun. But she wasn’t thinking about pain. Only her father. 

She turned toward the open garage, blood pounding in her ears, and ran. 

She had to see him. Had to find Jasper. Maybe—just maybe—her father was okay. 

But before she could make it to the door, Tommy and the other man were there, blocking her path. Their faces grim, eyes wide with shock and concern. 

"Stop!" Tommy barked, running towards her. "You’re hurt. You can’t just run out there." 

The other man added, more gently, "It’s not safe. There could be more of them. We need to regroup—figure out what the hell just happened." 

But Eira didn’t care. 

She kept standing. 

Because she couldn’t fall yet. 

Her knees buckled anyway. She staggered toward the door, toward the fading trail of hooves and blood. 

“Stop!” Tommy blocked her. “You’re bleeding. You can’t—” 

She shoved him. 

Stumbled. 

Fell. 

Crawled. 

“Dad…” 

Her voice was a rasp, a ghost of a sound. Her fingers scraped the concrete, leaving bloody streaks behind. The pain in her arm was molten, but she didn’t care. It didn’t matter. 

Only one thing mattered. 

She had to see him. 

Had to find him. 

Even if what she found broke her completely. 

The other man stood frozen beside Tommy, his mouth slightly agape, eyes darting between the bodies and the blood. “What do we do?” he asked, voice thin and unsteady. 

Tommy turned on him, fury flashing across his face. “For fuck’s sake, Seth—go get your horse. Chase the damn horse down before it gets too far!” 

Seth snapped out of his hesitation and sprinted toward the exit, boots pounding across the concrete. He ran past Eira, who had collapsed onto her knees beside the bloodstained floor. She was shaking, sobbing, her breath catching in shallow bursts. The pain in her shoulder barely registered anymore beneath the weight of everything else. 

She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see. 

She was going to throw up. 

And then—through the rising blur of grief and shock—she heard a voice. 

Her mother’s voice. 

“Eira! Eira, what’s going on? What happened?” 

But Eira couldn’t answer. Her mouth opened, no sound came out.  

Her body trembled, her vision swimming with cold and blood and disbelief.  

All she could do was stare out into the light beyond the loading dock—toward the place where Jasper had vanished, dragging her father behind him into the snow. 

A trail of blood marked their path, stark and winding against the white,  

Eira managed to get out a weak, broken word between her panicked breaths. “Dad…” 

Her trembling hand lifted, pointing toward the blood trail that disappeared into the woods like a cruel thread unraveling everything she had left. 

Her mother followed the gesture—and went white. She stood up slowly, lips parted as if to whisper her husband’s name—but no sound came. She looked between her bleeding daughter and the trail of blood vanishing into the cold, her eyes wide with horror. 

She didn’t know which way to go. Where to stay. Who needed her more. 

Tommy was on his knees beside Eira now, unsure of what to do, his hands hovering near her as if afraid to make it worse. She had just saved his life—pulled the trigger when he hadn’t—and in doing so, lost her father right in front of them. 

He wanted to say something. Do something. But nothing felt right. Nothing would ever be right about this. 

But Tommy pushed through the silence, his voice firm, steady. “We need to stop your bleeding. We can help you.” 

Eira shook her head, tears streaking her dirt-smudged cheeks. “No you can’t,” she whispered. “Nothing can help us now.” 

Thea looked between the two—her daughter slumped and bleeding, and the trail of blood leading into the unknown. Once again, she was faced with the impossible decision: 

Help her daughter… or run after the man she loved. 

Thea whispered it, as if ashamed. “Help her.” 

Then she turned, sprinted toward her horse, Mady, and practically leapt into the saddle. Without another word, she kicked the mare into motion, galloping after the bloodpath her husband had left behind. 

Eira watched as her mother rode off, disappearing into the trees. Her mind couldn’t take it all in—everything was happening too fast, too brutally. 

She was cold. So cold. 

Tommy gently sat her up, pulling her into a seated position and leaning her against him. 

“You’re going into shock,” he said, his voice low but urgent. “Here, have this.” 

He pulled something from his coat—a crumbling piece of dry fruitcake—and shoved it gently into her mouth. 

Eira coughed, the taste rough and sweet and wrong, but she managed to swallow. 

Tommy reached for her shoulder, then paused, his brow furrowed. He moved carefully, peeling back the fabric of her blood-soaked shirt and exposing the wound. 

“Hey—stay with me,” he murmured, gently tearing the sleeve wider. “Shit. Clean through, but still bad. Hold on.” 

He opened his pack with brisk, focused movements, grabbing gauze and a roll of bandage. As he worked, his eyes flicked over her, checking for other injuries. 

That’s when he saw it. 

Etched faintly into the skin of her left shoulder, half-obscured by blood and grime: 

A scar. Two initials. 

A.H. 

He froze. Just for a second. Then blinked and kept working, saying nothing. But the image lingered in his eyes like something he couldn’t unsee. 

Everything was happening too fast. 

Her father—gone. 

She had killed a man. 

Been shot. 

Her mother had come and left in the same breath. 

And now a stranger was ripping away her shirt to patch her wounds. 

It was too much. 

The edges of the world folded in, narrowing to a pinprick of light. 

Everything went black. 

Running in circles 

She was a white rabbit again. 

But she wasn’t leaping through snow or darting between trees. 

This time, her leg was caught—snared in a rusted metal trap. Blood bloomed across the snow beneath her, vivid and spreading. She ran in frantic, trembling circles, tugging and twisting, but there was no escape. 

The pain was dull now, distant, like it didn’t even belong to her anymore. 

There were only two choices: chew her own leg off… 

…or wait for death. 

And she didn’t know which would be harder. 

When she woke again, the world was quiet—too quiet. She was no longer in the cold, no longer in the loading dock. 

She was in a house. 

Lying on a thick blanket near a fireplace, its low flames casting gentle shadows on the walls. The scent of smoke clung to her skin, mingled with blood and something metallic. 

She tried to sit up, instinctively pushing with her right arm— 
Pain shot through her shoulder like fire. 

She nearly screamed. 

The sound must have stirred them, because a moment later, footsteps scrambled her way. Her mother was there in an instant, eyes wide and glassy, and Tommy close behind. 

“Honey, are you okay? Thank God you’re awake,” Thea breathed, dropping to her knees beside her. 

Eira blinked slowly, dazed. She reached up with her left hand and felt her right shoulder—bandaged, tightly. The fabric was damp with sweat and pain, but the bleeding had stopped. 

Eira’s lips parted, her voice rough and slurred. “What happened? Where’s Dad—?” 

But the words trailed off as the memory returned, sharp and brutal. 

The sound of the gunshot. 
Jasper bolting. 
The blood. 
The way his body had fallen. 

She remembered. 

And her face crumpled before she could stop it. 

Her mother’s face twisted with heartbreak. She pulled Eira into a careful, trembling embrace, mindful of her wounds but unable to hold back the emotion. 

“Oh God,” Thea choked, her voice breaking as tears spilled freely. “Oh God, baby…” 

She held her daughter like she was trying to keep her from falling apart. 

Chapter Text

Eira sat slumped in the saddle, her fingers loosely gripping the reins as Bran carried her forward with a steady, patient gait. The horse's warmth was the only thing grounding her. The forest around them creaked under the weight of snow and silence. 

Tommy led the way, riding ahead with a quiet resolve. He didn’t look back. He hadn’t looked back once. 

Behind Eira, Thea rode close, eyes always flickering between her daughter’s slouching form and the trail ahead, as if afraid Eira might simply fall off and disappear. At the rear, Seth followed on his mount, a quiet, guilt-stricken shadow. 

They were finally nearing Jackson. 

A place that had only been a name, a hope, a direction to point their feet—until now. It should have meant something. Should have sparked relief or gratitude. 

But all it did was hurt. 

Because one man was missing. 

The man who had made sure they got this far. The man who had ridden out into danger without hesitation, who had called out for his daughter right before a bullet ripped him from the world. 

Eira’s father. 

Thea’s husband. 

Gone. 

They hadn’t recovered his body. Jasper had run too far, too fast. And when the trail went cold in the forest—when the snow had fallen again and washed the blood into memory—there was nothing left to chase. 

Nothing but grief. 

And so they rode in silence. No one dared fill the air. The only words spoken were clipped and necessary—when to turn, where to stop for the night, how much distance they had left. 

Eira remembered so little of those days. Just fragments—Tommy’s voice calling directions; her mother’s hand, briefly brushing her hair from her face while she lay half-asleep at camp; Seth staring into the fire like he was waiting for it to judge him. 

She didn’t remember what they ate. Didn’t remember when she bled through the bandage again, or when they rewrapped it. 

She remembered the cold. 

And the silence. 

And how it felt like forever. 

The walls of Jackson rose from the snowy valley like a quiet promise. Timber and steel framed the perimeter, thick and watchful, guarded not just by strength but by necessity. Smoke drifted lazily from chimneys, curling into the grey sky. Behind the gate, life continued—children’s laughter distant and soft, hammers tapping wood, dogs barking in play. 

Eira barely registered any of it. 

Tommy raised a hand as they approached. The guards at the gate recognized him immediately, though their expressions shifted quickly—first relief, then confusion, and finally a tension that rippled through the air like the pull of a bowstring. 

The gate creaked open. 

They rode through without fanfare. No one cheered. No one rushed to embrace them. 

Instead, Jackson watched. 

Dozens of eyes peered from porches, through windows, around doorframes. Mothers paused with laundry in hand. Workers stopped hammering boards. A boy lowered his slingshot, forgotten in his hands. 

Eira felt the weight of their gaze. 

They looked at Tommy and Seth with narrowed brows, searching for answers in the lines of their faces. 

And then they looked at her. 

The girl bleeding into her coat. Wrapped in someone else's jacket. Slouched forward like the saddle was the only thing holding her together. Her face pale, gaunt, sunken from days of silence and pain. 

A girl who had killed. 

A girl who had lost everything. 

Eira didn’t hear the words clearly, but she felt them—sharp and hot, like cinders blown into open wounds. 

Tommy dismounted first. His shoulders were tight, jaw clenched. Maria was already approaching across the yard, her pace brisk, concern etched into every step. Behind her came a few others—trusted faces. The old sheriff. A medic. Jackson’s quiet inner circle. 

There were no smiles. 

Only questions. 

Seth slipped off his horse with less grace, visibly haunted. His hands trembled as he passed the reins off to someone. When a woman asked if he was hurt, he just shook his head and said, “Not the way that matters.” 

Then the town’s focus landed fully on Eira. 

Tommy moved to her side, reaching up to help her down. She didn’t respond at first. It was as if her body no longer belonged to her. 

But then her mother was there, and together they eased her off Bran’s back. The movement tore at her wound, and she bit back a cry, her breath hitching like it had frozen in her lungs. 

Maria stepped forward, her eyes scanning Eira not with judgment, but with something quieter—understanding, perhaps. Or awe. Or guilt. 

“Let’s get her inside,” Maria said softly. “She needs warmth. Food. Rest.” 

No one argued. 

And behind them, in the crowd, Joel stood watching—arms crossed, unreadable. But as Eira passed, his brow furrowed. For the briefest moment, something flickered behind his eyes. Not pity. Not concern. Recognition. He saw the weight in her gait, the fire under her silence. A girl burning from the inside out. Like someone else he knew. 

He didn’t say a word. He just kept watching, even after she disappeared into the infirmary. 

Ellie stood beside him. Her face was harder to read. 

Council meeting

The room was heavy with heat and tension. Lanterns glowed above the crowd, swinging slightly with each gust of wind from the storm outside. Every bench was full. People stood in the back, arms crossed, brows furrowed. No one liked meetings like this. But no one had stayed home. 

Maria stood at the front, flanked by Tommy and Seth. She didn’t raise her voice—she didn’t have to. 

“She’s alive,” Maria said. “Her mother too. They’re resting.” 

A man near the front leaned forward. “So what do we know about them? Really.” 

Tommy answered before Maria could. “Their names are Thea and Eira. From Portland. They’ve been traveling over a month. They reached Pinedale the same day Seth and I walked into a trap.” 

“Was it her that shot that man?” someone asked. 

Tommy nodded. “Yeah. She did.” 

The murmurs started—low, uncertain. 

“She saved your life,” another voice said, more statement than question. 

Tommy hesitated. “I don’t think that’s why she did it.” 

That quieted the room. 

He looked out at the crowd. “Her father was there. He came looking for her. And he got gunned down before he could even finish a sentence. Shot. No warning. Then dragged into the snow by his own horse.” 

No one spoke. Even Seth was frozen, jaw clenched. 

“She saw it happen. From maybe ten feet away.” Tommy’s voice cracked, just once. “I don’t think she aimed to save me. I don’t even think she was thinking. She just… reacted.” 

He let the silence speak for a beat, then added, “But that one second—her pulling the trigger—meant I’m standing here right now. Seth too.” 

Seth gave a subtle nod, eyes lowered. 

“So yeah, maybe it wasn’t heroic. Maybe it was grief. Rage. Just survival.” Tommy’s voice dropped. “But we owe her for it. No matter what was in her head when she pulled that trigger.” 

A woman in the back asked softly, “And what happened to her dad?” 

Tommy’s answer was flat. “Dead. We couldn’t find the body. The snow buried the trail. They lost him.” 

Maria picked up again. “We’ve all lost people. And none of us showed up here whole. Joel and Ellie got a shot at peace when they came last year. I say we offer that same shot now.” 

Some nods. A few hesitant ones. 

Then Joel’s voice cut through from the back, quiet but steady. “You welcomed us when we had nothin’ but bad memories and a map. We were strangers too. You gave us a place.” 

He paused. 

“Why not them?” 

That was enough. 

No votes. No speeches. 

Just the slow, quiet shift of a town choosing mercy. Not because Eira was a hero—but because she'd bled for them anyway. 

Fever Dream 

Snow fell sideways, slicing through the dark like white blades. Eira stood barefoot in a frozen field, skin numb, hands empty. The wind screamed her name—but no matter how she turned, there was no voice. Only absence. 

Ahead, golden light flickered between trees. A cabin. Warmth. Home. 

She ran toward it. 

With every step, the snow deepened. Her legs grew heavy. The light drifted farther. Her breath splintered in her chest like broken glass. 

Then—hooves. Thunderous and sudden. 

She turned. 

Jasper burst through the storm, wild-eyed, blood trailing behind him like a second tail. Her father’s body dragged behind, limp, caught in the stirrup. His arms flailed like torn paper. 

“Dad!” she screamed. 

But her voice shattered into wind. 

She fell to her knees, reaching— 

—and found not flesh, but straw. Her father was a scarecrow, jaw slack, eyes stitched shut with black thread. 

She staggered back, breath catching—then heard it: snap. 

A rusted snare clamped her leg. Bone crushed. Blood blossomed. 

She screamed—but it wasn’t her voice. It was a rabbit’s cry. Shrill. High. Animal. 

She looked down. 

Paws. Broken. Bleeding. 

She tried to crawl—but her limbs no longer obeyed. Only the pain was hers. 

Laughter rose behind her. 

She turned her head. 

Two men sat beside a fire, drinking coffee from porcelain cups. Their faces were shadowed but known. The ones who killed her father. One raised his mug. 

“You're too late,” he said, smiling. 

A spotlight snapped on from above—blinding, cold, revealing her. No hiding now. 

Beside her in the snow: her hairbrush. The walkie-talkie. 

It crackled once. 

“You left me,” her father’s voice rasped. “You let me go.” 

She whimpered, “No… I tried…” 

But the field dissolved. 

She was standing in the kitchen. 

Portland. 

Sunlight. Her books. Her mother humming. 

And on the wall—dozens of clocks. All ticking backward. 

She turned toward the mirror over the fireplace. 

It wasn’t her reflection. 

It was her mother, blood running down her chin. And behind her— 

A white rabbit, hanging from a snare. Eyes wide. Neck bent. 

Its fur soaked red. 

The world returned slowly, like surfacing through dark water. 

A chill had settled deep in her bones, even though the fire nearby cracked with steady warmth. Eira’s eyes blinked open, lashes crusted and heavy. The ceiling above her was made of wooden beams, old but strong. 

Not the supermarket. 
Not the road. 

Jackson. 

She was in Jackson. 

Maybe. 

Was this another dream? 

She blinked again, expecting the room to flicker, to twist into the cabin or the woods again. But it held. Solid. Quiet. Real. 

Her breath came slow. Shallow. Her skin felt damp, the sheets clinging to her with the ghosts of fevered nights. The weight of the blanket on her chest felt unbearable, like stone. 

She turned her head, wincing. The movement sent a dull spike of pain through her right shoulder—bandaged tight, the wound underneath still aching, but cleaner. Healing. 

She was alone. 

The chair beside her bed was empty. A folded blanket sat draped over the backrest. A chipped cup of water on the nightstand, half-full. Someone had been here—maybe many times—but not now. 

She lifted her left hand, slow and trembling, to her forehead. 

Cold sweat. Matted hair. 

And memories. 

They hit like a wave. 

Her father’s scream. The blood. The way Jasper had bolted. The shot she fired—the way the man crumpled like his bones had been turned to ash. 

Eira gasped and sat up too fast. Pain lanced through her side and shoulder, but she didn’t stop. She needed air. She needed— 

She needed her father. 

But he wasn’t here. 

Her stomach twisted as tears welled without warning. Her mouth trembled, but she clenched her jaw. 

No. Not yet. 

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The floor was cool under her feet. The room tilted for a moment, the fever’s remnants still dancing in her head like shadows. 

The silence screamed around her. 

“Mom?” Her voice cracked. Dry. Raw from disuse. 

No answer. 

Only the low pop of the fireplace, the ticking of a clock on the far wall, and her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. 

She was awake. 

But she had never felt more alone. 

Eira gripped the edge of the bed, grounding herself against the tremble in her limbs. Her breath fogged faintly in the air, and that alone told her it was colder here than where she’d last been. Not Pinedale. Not the farmhouse. 

She looked around. 

The room was small but clean. A handmade quilt covered her legs. A faded curtain hung loosely over a narrow window, sunlight leaking through in hazy streaks. There were books stacked on a low shelf, a chipped basin on a stand, and a small table covered in folded towels, bottles, and bandages. 

It looked… lived-in. 

And safe. 

But not familiar. 

Her pulse ticked faster. 

She pushed herself up, legs weak beneath her, her injured shoulder screaming in protest. She stumbled to the window and dragged the curtain aside with her good hand. 

Beyond the frosted glass was a street—quiet, lined with weathered buildings. People were walking. A child pulled a sled. A man split wood near a porch. Somewhere, a dog barked. 

She squinted at the buildings and saw it: a painted sign in the distance. 

TIPSY BISON SALOON. 

Jackson. 

They’d made it. 

She was in Jackson. 

Then—her voice caught in her throat. 

Where’s Mom? 

She turned, scanning the room again. Her eyes landed on the empty chair, the untouched cup of water, and her own boots neatly placed at the foot of the bed. Someone had taken care of her. Sat with her. But they were gone now. 

Her chest clenched. “Mom?” she called out again, louder. 

No answer. 

Was something wrong? Had something happened after they arrived? 

Her heart began to race. She moved to the door and pulled it open, but the hallway outside was just as empty. Just as quiet. 

Panic started to rise like bile in her throat. 

She wasn’t ready to be alone. Not yet. 

Not after everything. 

Not without knowing where her mother was. 

Eira’s bare feet slapped against the wooden floor, her hospital gown flapping in the draft of the hallway. Each step sent knives of pain lancing through her shoulder and up into her skull, but she didn’t stop. Her skin burned with leftover fever, and the cold cut through her like glass. 

She pushed the door open with her good hand and stumbled out into the snow-covered street. 

The cold was immediate—biting at her legs, her arms, her face—but she didn’t turn back. She wasn’t even sure she could. The pale sun cast long shadows across the town square, and people—dozens of them—turned to look. 

Tools were dropped. Conversations cut short. 

Someone gasped. 

There she was. 

The girl from the gate. The girl who shot a man in the back of the head and walked away bleeding. The one they'd heard about, but hadn’t seen since. Rumors had swirled about her—some said she was still unconscious, some said she was dead. 

But here she was. Half-dressed, barefoot, fever-bruised, and haunted. 

She wasn’t sure what they saw. 

She didn’t care. She was just looking for her mother. 

Joel was one of the first to see her. 

He was halfway through stacking lumber near the stables, sleeves rolled up, jaw set in quiet rhythm. He looked up at the sound of gasps—just a glance at first—but when he saw her, he stilled completely. 

Barefoot in the snow. Hospital gown hanging loose. Hair clinging to a sweat-damp face. Her skin flushed with fever, but her eyes—distant, hollow—like someone still walking through a war only she could see. 

And Joel knew that look. 

He’d worn it himself. He’d seen it in Ellie. In Tess. In the mirror. 

He didn’t move toward her. Just watched. 

She was younger than him by decades, but she carried that same haunted weight. That same fire behind the glass. There was something wrong about it—how someone that young could already look that old. 

And beautiful, too, in a way that hurt more than it pleased. Not in the way men meant it. She was beautiful the way a burned-down church is beautiful. Quiet. Damaged. Still standing. 

For a second, he saw Sarah in her. 

Then Ellie. 

Then no one but herself—just Eira, staggering through the cold like she didn’t care who saw her bleed. 

He felt something twist in his chest. Not pity. Not desire. Not even guilt. 

Recognition. 

He knew what it was to carry grief that didn’t know where to land. To lose someone and keep losing them every day afterward. To wake up in a world that had the audacity to keep turning without them. 

He didn’t say a word. Just clenched his jaw, lowered the lumber in his hands, and kept his eyes on her until Maria and the nurse reached her. 

She shouldn’t have had to survive that. Joel thought. 

It was Maria who broke first. She stepped out of the saloon, coat already half-on, and when she saw Eira swaying in the cold, her expression turned immediately from curiosity to alarm. 

“Jesus—hey!” Maria was already crossing the snow. “Somebody help me, she’s bleeding through her bandages!” 

Behind her, Ellie stopped dead in her tracks, her boots crunching into the snow. She didn’t speak, just stared—her mouth open, stunned by the sight of someone so broken looking so defiant. 

But it was a young nurse named Carla—barely older than Eira herself—who reached her first. She sprinted across the square, her long braid bouncing behind her, and wrapped her coat around Eira’s shoulders. 

“Hey—hey, it’s okay,” Carla whispered, supporting her by the arm. “You shouldn’t be out here. You’re safe. Come on, let’s get you back inside.” 

Eira didn’t respond. Her lips trembled, and her eyes were unfocused. She looked past Carla, past Maria, past all of them—out toward the woods beyond the town walls, as if she expected her father to come riding back on Jasper. 

Carla didn’t let go. 

“I’ve got her,” she said firmly, guiding Eira slowly back toward the infirmary. “It’s okay. You don’t have to walk alone.” 

Maria followed them, her face tight with worry. Joel watched, jaw clenched. Ellie stepped out of the way to let them pass but never took her eyes off Eira—not once. 

And the town? They stood still, silent, watching the ghost of a girl carried gently through their streets. 

Chapter Text

Tommy leaned against the railing of the watchtower, eyes fixed on the frostbitten tree line beyond Jackson’s borders. The snow had come in heavy the past few days, burying tracks and quieting the forest in a way that always set him on edge. There was too much silence in the world already—he didn't trust it anymore. 

Behind him, heavy boots crunched up the steps. Tommy didn’t need to look to know who it was.

Joel.

He moved slowly, each step purposeful, shoulders hunched slightly against the bitter cold. His worn jacket frayed at the edges, flannel shirt tucked loosely beneath, snow packed into the creases of his boots. His beard was more gray than brown now, eyes tired but always sharp.

“You’re early,” he muttered. 

Joel came up beside him and gave a slight shrug. “Didn’t sleep much.” 

“Same.” 

They stood shoulder to shoulder, watching the breath rise from their mouths like smoke signals. Joel, tall and broad and quiet. Tommy, a step shorter, leaner, his long dark hair pulled back and eyes tracking the frostbitten horizon with steady precision. A trimmed beard framed his jaw, darker than Joel’s, and he wore the layered winter gear of someone who’d spent a lifetime learning how to survive both cold and people.

Neither rushed to fill the air.

“She’s still not talking much, Eira” Tommy said eventually. 

Joel didn’t need to ask who. “She healing?” 

“Physically? Yeah. Fever broke. Wound’s sealed up enough. But...” Tommy hesitated, jaw flexing. “She’s somewhere else.” 

Joel gave him a sidelong look, waiting. 

Tommy exhaled, long and sharp. “That day—at the depot—it wasn’t clean, Joel. It wasn’t some rescue story. She saw her father get shot. Dragged. Screamed herself silent tryin’ to reach him.” 

Joel’s eyes darkened. “You said she shot the guy who did it.” 

“She did. One clean shot. Back of the head. Didn’t even blink.” 

There was a pause. 

Joel asked, low, “I’d done the same if it was to save you, Ellie... Sarah” 

Tommy shook his head. “But I don’t think it was about saving. I think... it was the only thing left she could control. She couldn’t stop what happened. Couldn’t stop her dad from dying. But she could stop him.” 

Joel looked back toward town. “Still saved you.” 

“Yeah,” Tommy said. “But it wasn’t mercy.” 

He hesitated, then added, voice lower: “But that ain’t all” 

Joel turned to face him now. 

Tommy spoke carefully. “When she collapsed, I tried to stop the bleeding. Tore her sleeve open to get a better look at the wound. That’s when I saw... it.” 

Joel frowned. “Saw what?” 

“A scar. Carved into her shoulder. Left side. Two letters. ‘A.H.’” Tommy’s voice dropped. “Someone did that to her on purpose.” 

Joel’s expression darkened. “How old?” 

“Dunno' but it's deep. Intentional.” Tommy’s hands flexed against the railing. “I didn’t tell the others. Hell, I didn’t even tell Maria. Figured it wasn’t mine to say. But shes’ probably seen it by now” 

Joel was quiet for a beat, then asked, “She know you saw it?” 

“I think she flinched,” Tommy said. “Even while bleeding out. Like her whole body remembered before her head caught up. After that, she wouldn’t look me in the eye.” 

Joel’s jaw shifted. “Jesus.” 

“Yeah.” 

Another silence stretched. 

Joel nodded. “Saw her the other day. She was out on the porch. Didn’t move for near an hour. Just... sat there.” 

“Sometimes I think she’s holding still so nothing else gets taken away.” 

Joel gave a dry, bitter exhale. “Like what is she, twenty-seven? Twenty-eight?” 

Tommy rubbed his thumb across his glove. “She’s twenty-five. And I don’t think she’s had a moment’s peace in the last five.” 

Joel gave a tight nod. “She’s too young to be carryin’ that much.” 

Tommy added, “But she is. And she still saved us.” 

Joel was quiet for a long time. Then finally said, “We came here last year in pieces. Town gave us room to breathe. Start over.” 

He looked to Tommy. 

“She deserves the same. Even if she doesn’t know what to do with it yet.” 

“She ain’t gonna have an easy start here, though” Tommy said. “Not after whatever life she’s had before this.” 

Joel just gave a slow grunt. “Some folks never come back at all.” 

“You think they’ll stay?” Tommy finally asked. “Thea and Eira?” 

“If they’re smart,” Joel said. “But who knows? When you lose someone like that… sometimes all you want is to keep runnin’. Or burn everything down.” 

Tommy didn’t reply, for he knew exactly what his big brother was speaking about. 

Down below, Jackson was slowly waking up. People trudged through the snow, bundled in coats and scarves, nodding hellos. Somewhere near the schoolhouse, children laughed—bright and muffled. A cart full of chopped wood creaked past the Tipsy Bison, the driver humming under his breath. 

Life continued. As it always did. 

But something in the air had shifted. 

There was loss in the wind now. And something else—quiet, sharp as glass beneath the snow. 

The kind of feeling that told Tommy Miller that peace in Jackson, like everything else in this world, might be running on borrowed time. 

Time passed, as it always does in places that promise safety. 

After Eira’s fever broke, she and her mother were moved from the infirmary to a small, house with a porch just down the road from Joel’s. Once it had been a summer cabin with no insulation, but they worked with what they could provide. It wasn’t much—patchwork siding, a patched roof, a stove that could fix simple meals—but it was dry. It was warm. Joel had helped fix it up, wordlessly, lending his hands to a silence he understood too well. 

But warmth never made it past the walls. 

Eira didn’t quite come back. 

She stayed in her room most days, the curtains drawn tight. Her journal sat open in her lap, though some days she didn’t write a word. Others, she filled pages in jagged, relentless lines, the pen digging into paper like she was trying to bleed something out of herself. She cried without sound. Screamed in her sleep. And when sleep wouldn’t come, she just… stared. At the walls. At nothing. Into herself. 

No one could reach her. 

Not her mother. Not Tommy, who tried once or twice and left each time with that hollow look in his eyes. Not Maria.  

Eira barely ate. She didn’t speak. She barely blinked. 

Sometimes she’d sit on the porch—barefoot, wrapped in an old coat, staring into the snow like she was waiting for something that would never come. Waiting. Remembering. Grieving. It was hard to tell the difference.  

Sometimes she sat so long she’d start to fee needles in her feet. But that actually felt nice to her, it meant she could feel something. Something other than emptiness and grief. But to her mother that stillness, meant as if it Eira was vanishing piece by piece. 

Thea tried at first—keeping the house warm, bringing meals Eira hardly touched. Eventually, she began retreating to the Tipsy Bison, numbing herself night after night.  By their second month, it was three, sometimes four nights a week. She’d sit at the bar and drink until the weight in her chest dulled, until her voice softened, until the fire of anger gave way to quiet collapse. 

Seth never turned her away. How could he? He’d seen it all—her husband dying, her daughter broken and bleeding, everything unraveling in a single breath. Maybe letting her drink was the only comfort he knew how to give. 

One night, the Tipsy Bison was quieter than usual. Snow pressed against the windows like hands trying to get in. Lanternlight flickered along the walls. Seth stood behind the bar drying the same glass twice over. 

The door creaked and Thea stepped in. She seemed smaller than she’d been the week before. She shrugged off her coat, moved to her usual stool, and slid a token across the counter without a word. 

Seth poured. Gently. 

She drank it all in one go. No expression. Just silence. 

After a moment, he asked, “How’s she doing?” 

Thea didn’t look at him. “Didn’t leave her room.” 

Seth gave a soft nod. Waited. 

“She doesn’t really look at me anymore,” Thea said quietly. “And when she does... it’s not anger. It’s guilt. Like it’s her fault he died.” 

She let out a bitter laugh. It cracked halfway through. 

“She never says it. Doesn’t have to. I see it—every time I pass her door.” 

She reached for her drink again, but this time her hands were trembling. 

“She didn’t kill him.” 

The words that followed caught in her throat—half-sob, half-whisper. 

“She just wanted to get us coffee, dammit.” 

The glass thunked against the counter as she set it down too hard, liquid sloshing over the rim. Her hands went to her face, pressing hard like she could shove the pain back in where it belonged. 

Seth stepped closer. “Thea…” 

“She thought it’d be nice. Something normal. Something warm. And HE let her.” Her voice was muffled in her hands. “I should’ve said no. Told her it wasn’t worth it.” 

Seth’s voice stayed low. “He made that call. Not her. Not you. This ain't all on you Thea.” 

She looked up at him, eyes red and wet. “Then why does it feel like I lost both of them that day?” 

He had no answer. Just silence. 

She pushed the drink away with her palm. “No more tonight.” 

“I’ll walk you home if you want.” 

She shook her head. “No. I think I need the cold.” 

She stood slowly, like she was carrying something heavier than her own weight and walked out without another word. Seth watched her go, the door swinging shut behind her. 

But that night wasn’t the end. Or the night after. Or the one that followed. 
Grief settled deeper—and soon, it began to sour. 

Her sadness turned inward, became something sharper. Thea began lashing out—not in shouts or blows, but with words that struck deeper. 

“Why did you go to that damn supermarket?” 

“Was it worth it? Was the coffee worth your father’s life?” 

Eira never answered. She didn’t need to. Sometimes she looked at her mother with empty eyes. Sometimes she cried. But most often, she said nothing at all. 

The neighbors heard the shouting. And one evening, Maria pulled Joel aside outside the town hall. 

“Can you do me a favor? Just keep an eye out. Thea’s not holding it together, and Eira—she’s slipping through the cracks. You’re the closest to them so I thought I should ask you first...” 

Joel looked at her, jaw tightening slightly. He didn’t answer right away. 

“I’ll do what I can,” he said finally, voice low. “But don’t expect a damn miracle. They don’t know me. And I sure as hell don’t know them. Grief don’t just go away ‘cause someone shows up.” 
He looked away as he said it, eyes fixed somewhere over Maria’s shoulder—like if he looked her in the eyes, it might give something away he wasn’t ready to show. 

Maria studied him for a long moment, then asked, more gently, “You been to see Gail lately?” 

Joel blinked. “No. Why?” 

She shrugged, the gesture more guarded than casual. “Just… thinkin’. Maybe talkin’ to someone wouldn’t hurt.” 

He gave a quiet scoff, more habit than dismissal. “I ain’t exactly built for heart-to-hearts.” 

“Doesn’t have to be one,” she said. 

Joel didn’t promise anything. 

Maria didn’t push. She just nodded once, quietly grateful. 

That night, Joel had heard the shouting. It had echoed faintly down the road. He’d paused with a hand on his doorknob, back stiff, breath held. The words weren’t clear, not all of them—but the tone was. Sharp and wounded. Angry even. 

He stood there for a long minute, listening. Waiting. 

But he didn’t go. 

Maybe it was pride. Maybe fear. Maybe the memory of his own voice cracking in the dark, the echo of Sarah’s name shouted into nothing. 

He knew grief. Knew what it did to people—how it twisted the best parts of you, made you lash out at the ones still standing because they were there, and she wasn’t. 

It wasn’t his place, he’d told himself. Not his family. Not his fight. 

And besides, what would he even say? 

That it gets better? 

No. He wasn’t going to lie to that girl. Or to her mother. And the truth wasn’t something they were ready to hear. 

So, he stayed in the doorway that night, jaw clenched, eyes locked on the soft flicker of their porch light. Then he turned, stepped inside, and let the shouting fade into the walls. 

For months, no one intervened. 

And grief doesn’t care for time. 

The little house near Joel’s—though warm, though built with good intentions—was slowly coming apart, piece by piece. 

Jackson watched. Quietly. From a distance. 

And wondered how long the silence could hold before it broke them both. 

The Breaking Point 

Early February 2035 

It was cold that night—the kind of cold that seeps into bones and lingers. But it wasn't the cold that woke Eira. It was her mother’s voice.

Thea had returned from the Tipsy Bison long after midnight, the front door slamming shut behind her. Eira sat up, her heart racing—not from fear, just habit. She listened: stumbling footsteps, a muffled sob, then the shouting. 

“You don’t even look at me anymore,” Thea slurred from the kitchen. “You just sit there. Like some... ghost. Like you’re the only one who lost something.” 

Eira stayed silent, eyes fixed on the cracked ceiling. She knew the rhythm by now—the yelling, the crying, then silence. But tonight was different. Tonight, the kitchen wasn't far enough away.

Thea appeared in her bedroom doorway, swaying. “You really have nothing to say?” she hissed. “You think you’re the only one hurting? I chased after your dead father's body, and you—”

The sentence broke, unfinished, dissolving into a sob. Eira remained silent.

“You won’t eat, you won’t speak,” Thea continued bitterly. “All because you wanted some coffee beans and a broken radio. Dragged us into this hell—”

Eira turned to her mother slowly, deliberately. Her voice was calm, sharp as ice. “Like when you let that man take me to the barn? Let him brand me so he wouldn’t kill us?”

Thea froze. Something shattered behind her eyes, raw and final.

Eira turned away, pulling her blanket tight around her.

That was the last thing she ever said to her mother. 

When the sun finally dragged its pale light across Jackson, Maria made her rounds near the stables. The horses stirred. A few early risers had already started their morning chores. 

Maria was halfway to the corral when she saw something—something off. 

She stopped. Narrowed her eyes. 

A figure. Hanging. Still. 

It was Thea. 

She’d used a post beam in the back of the stables, her belt looped. 

Her boots rested neatly beneath her next to  

Maria didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She simply stood there for a long moment, heart breaking in quiet silence. Then she turned, walked toward the main road, and called for Tommy. 

The same morning a knock at the door jolted Eira awake. 

She blinked, disoriented, her body leaden with exhaustion. She had only slept for maybe two hours—fitful, broken, more like drifting beneath dark water than any kind of rest. Her room was still dim, the air cold enough to sting her lungs. Her blanket was tangled around her legs. She hadn't even changed clothes. 

The knock came again. 

Eira sat up slowly, her pulse already climbing. Something was wrong. She knew it before she heard the voice on the other side. 

“Eira?” Tommy’s voice. Tired. Gentle. “It’s Tommy.” 

Then another voice followed—older, unfamiliar, but calm. “Gail Lynden. We’re coming in, okay?” 

The handle turned. The door creaked open. 

Tommy stepped into the entryway, hat in hand. His eyes were rimmed with red. Behind him stood a tall, silver-haired woman with soft lines around her eyes and something unreadable carved into her face. 

Eira didn’t move. Just sat there, still wrapped in the blanket, legs curled up beneath her on the bed. The light from the hallway was too bright. It made her feel exposed. 

“Something happened,” she said. Her voice was hoarse from sleep and silence. 

Tommy swallowed. “It’s your mom.” 

Gail stepped closer, her tone measured but not cold. “She was found this morning. At the stables.” 

Eira’s eyes went wide. But she didn’t ask what that meant. 

Tommy took a breath. “Eira... she’s gone.” 

There was no sound for several seconds. Not even breath. 

Eira stared past them, as if she might still hear the door open again, hear her mother’s boots in the hall, muttering about the cold. But the silence remained. 

“She didn’t come back to bed,” Eira said softly, almost to herself. “She just stopped yelling. I thought—maybe she passed out. I thought I’d… hear her in the morning.” 

Tommy looked down. “I’m sorry.” 

“Did she leave anything?” Eira asked, her voice thin. 

Gail shook her head. “No note. No explanation.” 

Eira stared into nothingness. “She didn’t even slam the door when she left. I think I knew.”

Gail stepped closer but kept her distance. “I'm so sorry.”

“She called me selfish,” Eira whispered. 

Tommy’s hands clenched again at his sides. 

“I said something back,” Eira said. “Something I can’t take back. And now she’s just… gone.” 

She turned around. Her eyes weren’t wet, but they looked like they should be. She looked hollowed out. Then, after a beat: “Can I see her? I want to see her,” Eira said again, voice firmer. 

Tommy stepped closer. “You don’t have to—” 

“I need to see her,” she snapped, her breath catching in her throat. “I didn’t get to see my father off. I need—” her voice cracked, and she clenched her jaw to hold it together. “I need to see her.” 

Tommy stepped forward, uncertain, like he wanted to reach out but didn’t know how. “Eira…” 

“I have to,” she said, almost a whisper now. “You can’t take that away from me too.” 

Gail exchanged a glance with Tommy. Then, quietly, she said, “Okay.” 

“We’ll take you,” Tommy added. “But only if you’re sure —”. 

She was already moving—hands shaking as she pulled on the closest pair of boots by the door, laces half-undone. Her coat hung limply on the wall. She grabbed it, shoved her arms through the sleeves, and stepped outside into the morning chill. 

The door creaked shut behind her. 

Tommy and Gail followed fast, exchanging a glance but saying nothing. 

Eira stepped into the street like someone moving underwater. The town was quiet this early, but not still. People were out—chopping wood, hauling water, clearing paths. They paused when they saw her. Some murmured. Others just stared. 

A few recognized her right away. The girl from the gate. From the silence. From the blood. 

They knew where she was going. 

Others didn’t. They blinked in surprise—more shocked by the fact she was walking at all, eyes red, jaw tight, boots crunching over snow. 

Whispers followed her down the road like falling ash. 

She passed the blacksmith’s, the bakery, the schoolhouse. The Tipsy Bison loomed to her left, shuttered for now, but the memory of it pressed sharp against her ribs. Her mother’s scent—whiskey, frost, and faded perfume—still lingered in the back of her throat.

Gail walked just behind her, arms folded tight against the cold, blue eyes shadowed with brittle compassion. She knew this kind of grief. Had walked beside it too many times not to recognize the weight.

Tommy moved at Eira’s side, a step ahead but never pushing. He’d already spoken to Joel that morning—told him everything. Joel hadn’t said much. Just stood there in the doorway, snow settling on his shoulders like dust on old guilt.

Now he stood on his porch, watching Eira pass. Jaw clenched, eyes rimmed with something unspoken. He rubbed the back of his neck and muttered, low and bitter, “Damn coward.”

Too late to help. Too late to fix anything. Like always.

But Eira didn’t look back. Didn’t care about the stares, the whispers, the weight of eyes on her. Let them watch.

She kept her gaze forward.

On the stables.

The open doors. 

Her knees faltered for just a second, but she caught herself. 

Tommy reached out instinctively—she flinched away. 

He backed off. 

The wind howled low between the buildings, as if trying to pull her back. But she stepped forward anyway. 

The stables stood quiet beneath the gray light of morning, their usual sounds—hooves shifting, low nickers—muted by something heavier than frost. 

Tommy opened the side door slowly. The hinges creaked. 

Inside, the air was cold and close, thick with the smell of hay, leather, and something else—something too still. 

Eira stepped in behind him, shoes scuffing against the worn floorboards. Gail hovered just behind her, silent, watchful. 

The body lay on a work table in the far corner, beneath a simple canvas sheet. Someone had placed a lantern near her head. The light glowed soft and golden against the white cloth. 

They had cut her down. Folded her hands. Brushed the snow from her hair. 

No theatrics. No candles or prayers. Just dignity. The quiet kind Jackson gave to its dead. 

Tommy cleared his throat, but his voice didn’t come. 

Eira didn’t wait for permission. She walked to the table, each step heavy but certain. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Her face pale, unreadable. 

She reached the edge and stopped. Stared. 

Tommy moved to speak again—but Gail laid a hand on his arm. Not yet. 

Eira leaned forward. Slowly. Carefully. And drew back the sheet. 

She didn’t cry at first. Didn’t gasp. Just looked. Looked like she’d been looking for days—at nothing, at pain, at a world that kept going without asking if she could still follow. 

Then her knees gave. Gail moved quickly, steadying her with gentle hands, guiding her to a nearby bench. Eira stayed upright only because of that touch—but her eyes never left her mother’s face.

Her hand moved instinctively, reaching out like a child searching for safety in the dark, fingers brushing over Thea’s, hoping for warmth that wasn’t there.

“She’s cold,” Eira whispered.

Tommy nodded once. “We didn’t want you to find her like... like that.” 

Silence. Only the soft rustle of the lantern flame. 

“She was already gone before anyone woke,” Gail said gently. “It was quiet. Fast.” 

Eira didn’t blink. “I should’ve known she wouldn’t come home.” 

“You couldn’t have known,” Tommy murmured. 

Eira gave a bitter, weightless laugh. “Didn’t get to say goodbye to either of them.” 

Gail sat beside her now. Not close. Not crowding. Just near enough. 

Tommy stayed standing, eyes fixed on the floor, hat clenched in one hand. 

Eira leaned forward, brushing a strand of hair off Thea’s forehead. Her fingers trembled. 

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I shouldn't have said that. I should’ve—” 

Her voice cracked, finally, and she turned away as the first sob escaped her. Gail caught her shoulders, held her there—not tightly, just enough so Eira didn’t fall again. 

For a long while, no one spoke. 

Outside, the wind shifted. Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang once. 

Inside the stable, grief settled like dust. Heavy. Unmoving. 

But shared. 

The ground was half-frozen. Jesse and Tony started early, breaking through the crust of snow and earth with practiced silence. Ellie stood nearby, not out of obligation, but because no one should be buried alone. She didn’t speak. Just waited, her breath steady in the cold. 

They hadn’t known Thea well. Most of Jackson hadn’t. But they understood what it meant to carry pain. And they knew Eira was alone now. 

So they showed up. 

Not because it was asked of them, but because it felt right. 

By mid-afternoon, the grave was filled. The ground was packed and level, a single stretch of earth marked by the weight of finality. No crowd lingered. No speeches were made. Just a few nods, a few quiet glances cast Eira’s way. Then the others turned and walked back toward town, leaving her alone in the cold. 

Eira didn’t cry. 

She stood still for a long time, the wind tugging at the edge of her coat, her hands red and raw from gripping the wood. Then she stepped forward, a simple cross held in her arms—something she'd carved herself in the days since. 

She knelt beside the grave and drove it into the earth, the base settling with a soft, solemn thud. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t perfect. But it was hers. 

Scrawled in dark, careful letters across the crossbeam were six words: 

“Together again, under open skies.” 

Her father’s body had never been found. No one had to say it aloud—some things simply vanished. But this… this was something. 

Maybe it was enough. 

Eira stepped back, brushing snow from her boots, and looked up toward the trees. The sky above was pale and cloudless. Still and wide. 

And for the first time in weeks, her chest didn’t feel completely hollow. 

Just quiet. Just tired. 

She turned and walked home alone, engulfed in something so dark she didn’t know if she would ever surface.

Chapter Text

The house was too quiet now. 

It wasn’t the kind of quiet you grow used to—the soft hush of snowfall or the peaceful stillness after a long day. This was the kind of quiet that pressed in on your chest.

Eira stayed in bed most mornings. Sometimes she stared at the ceiling for hours before moving. Sometimes she didn’t move at all. 

Thea’s room was empty now—her coat still hung by the door, boots still tucked beneath the bench. Eira hadn’t touched them. Couldn’t. She hadn't even entered her room once since that day.

She didn’t light the stove much anymore. Didn’t fix the broken drawer that kept catching her hip. The little things they were supposed to do together. Now undone. 

People from Jackson came by, each one leaving something behind—a warm meal, handwritten notes, a folded blanket. Maria had left flowers once. Joel silently repaired the latch on her gate. Tommy dropped off firewood every few days. They were kind gestures. Yet no one stayed.

And Eira never asked them to.

The flashbacks began quietly, insidiously.

Sometimes the gentle creak of the rocking chair took her back to the porch at their farm, the scent of coffee drifting lazily through the screen door. Her father humming a tune he never could quite finish, her mother teasing him affectionately about the eggs burning on the stove.

For a heartbeat, she felt safe.

Then, without warning, it would shift.

Suddenly, it was dark, and he was there.

A.H.

She never spoke his name, never even thought it fully. The initials branded into her skin were enough—an indelible mark both on her flesh and her memories. He haunted her, stalking her through the silent house.

The smell always hit first—rotting meat, sweat, and something sour, lingering like an infection. She remembered his tuneless humming, low and lazy, as if she were a chore he barely needed to think about. How his greasy hair would fall against her skin, oily and heavy, making her skin crawl even now.

And the knife. Bone-handled and worn, like another part of him.

The flashbacks came without mercy.

She would be washing her hands and suddenly feel the harsh bite of his belt tightening around her wrists. Voices from outside would make her freeze, her breath shallow and heart racing wildly.

Sleep became an enemy too.

She'd wake choking on emptiness, sweat clammy on her skin, screams trapped behind her clenched teeth.

No one in Jackson knew—not truly—what had happened. They didn’t know about the barn. The mark. The repeated visits, the slow torment labeled as "trading." A.H. and his gang took whatever they wanted—food, tools, supplies, control—knowing her family was too frightened to resist.

Each visit felt eternal. Eira remembered her mother's trembling hands filling their canteens, her father's refusal to meet her eyes afterward, as if he could deny reality by looking away.

Those weeks became a sickening blur of silence, obedience, and pain. It was never a choice. It was survival.

And now, she couldn’t bring herself to speak of it. Not because she didn’t want help, but because voicing it would make it unbearably real again.

Fresh. Permanent.

She would become that girl once more—the broken victim. And she couldn’t bear returning to that.

The truth was, she was paralyzed.

Paralyzed by memory, by shame, by the crushing loneliness.

She desperately wanted to move, to fight her way back to herself, but every day felt like sinking slowly beneath icy water.

She missed her father’s warm laughter, Thea’s gentle humming in the kitchen, the comforting press of Jasper’s nose against her palm, even the simple taste of blackberry jam spread over fresh sourdough.

God, she missed who she had been—a daughter, someone who cared, someone who mattered.

Now she was nothing more than a shadow, drifting silently through a borrowed house.

And no matter how far she walked in her mind, she couldn’t find the way back. 

But she wasn’t entirely alone.

Every other morning, the front door would creak softly open. Gail Lynden no longer bothered to knock.

“Just me,” she would announce softly, as if worried the house might shatter at a louder sound.

She never stayed long. Sometimes she left a warm meal on the table—a stew, a fresh roll, something that smelled like care. Other times she lingered in the chair by the fire, telling stories Eira didn’t ask for, didn’t respond to—but didn’t interrupt, either. 

Gail never pried. Not directly. She didn’t ask about Thea. Or the scars. Or what happened in Pinedale. 

Instead, she talked about others. 

“There’s a boy named Micah who lost both parents last year. He builds birdhouses now. Dozens of ‘em. Says it helps him feel less... useless.” 

Or: “Old man Conrad sits by the gate every morning. Swears he sees his wife’s ghost in the fog. Nobody argues with him. It brings him peace.” 

Eira never replied. But she listened. 

And Gail noticed. 

One afternoon, after setting down a bowl of hot lentils and cornbread, Gail didn’t sit. She just stood in the doorway, hands in the pockets of her coat, eyes steady. 

“There are others who grieve here too,” she said quietly. “You don’t have to tell them anything. You don’t even have to talk. But find them. Or let them find you. You might not want comfort right now, but one day you will.” 

She turned to leave, then paused. 

“And when that day comes, you’ll get all the comfort you need. All of it.” 

Then she was gone again, letting the door fall shut behind her. 

The stew cooled slowly. Eira didn’t touch it right away. She sat still, staring at the spoon. 

That night, she dreamed of her father’s laugh echoing down the hallway of the farmhouse. 

Days later, Gail stayed longer than usual, her chipped mug cradled in careful hands. She shared a quiet story about a girl who’d lost her brother—intending comfort without saying it outright.

Eira suddenly laughed bitterly, voice raw.

“Sure,” she whispered harshly. “They all probably saw their father shot down like a dog, watched his body dragged through the snow. Then watched their mother drink herself into oblivion until finally, finally saying one thing pushed her to suicide.”

Gail didn’t flinch. 

Eira stared into the cold fireplace, eyes glassy, arms wrapped tight around her own ribs like they were the only thing keeping her from unraveling. 

The silence afterward wasn’t the same kind Gail usually let breathe. This one hung thick. Heavy. 

Then Gail set down her mug, slow and careful. 

“None of that should’ve happened to you,” she said. “Not a single second of it.” 

Eira’s eyes didn’t move from the dead fireplace. Her voice came low, dry, barely above a whisper. 

“No shit.” 

It wasn’t angry. Not really. Just hollow. Like the words had been scraped from somewhere deep and half-forgotten. 

Gail didn’t get up. 

Normally, by now, she would’ve taken the hint. Given Eira her space. Said something soft like "I’ll come by tomorrow." But tonight, she stayed. 

She didn’t

not offering meaningless words, but instead, sharing her own quiet sorrow. She spoke of Eugene, the grief, and the simple comfort of pretending he was still there.

“I used to talk to Eugene like this,” Gail went on, voice quieter now. “Pretend he was still here. Complain about the weather, the food, the bastards on the council. He didn’t answer, obviously, but… it helped.” 

Silence. 

Then, Eira moved. 

Not much. Just a tilt of her head. A shift of weight.

Gail watched her with a gentleness that was rare in this world. No pity in her eyes. Just a quiet knowing. 

Gail shifted in her chair, slow and deliberate, watching the firelight flicker across Eira’s face. 

“Tell me something about yourself. Anything. I want to know you.”

Eira’s head snapped toward her like she’d been slapped. 

She blinked. “What?” 

“I mean it,” Gail said, her voice calm but firm. “No therapy bullshit. No circling the pain like a buzzard. Just you. A memory. A song you used to like. Anything.” 

Eira stared at her, stunned. In all the weeks since she’d arrived in Jackson—through the fever, the looks, the funeral, the silence—not one person had asked her something like that. Something normal. Something human. 

Gail didn’t press. She just waited, like she had all the time in the world. 

Eira opened her mouth. Closed it again. 

Then finally, barely above a whisper: “I haven’t seen Bran in almost two months.” 

Gail tilted her head gently. “Bran?” 

“My horse,” Eira said, voice raw. “He was born on our farm. I named him after a character in a movie I saw as a kid.” She paused, exhaled slow. “He was the last thing my dad and I trained together.” 

Gail said nothing. Just sat with it. Let it live in the quiet. 

Eira looked away quickly, blinking hard. Her throat tightened, but not in that choking, collapsing way it usually did. 

It was the first real question she’d been asked since she walked through the gates of Jackson. 

And it had started to crack something open. 

The next day, Eira decided she would walk to the stables. 

She could do that. 

It would be easy. 

Just put her hair up. 
Put some clothes on. 
Then shoes. 
Then leave through the door. 
Then the gate. 
And then— 

Then walk. 

She stood on the threshold for a long time, one hand resting on the doorframe like it might hold her up if the world gave out beneath her feet. Then she stepped outside. 

The morning air met her like a quiet slap—cold and sharp. 

She walked slowly. Not because her body couldn’t move faster, but because her mind couldn’t. Each step felt too loud, too fast.

People looked at her. 

Of course they did. 

Some glanced and quickly looked away. Others held their gaze a little too long. She felt every eye like it pressed a label onto her skin: tragic, fragile, unlucky. A few nodded stiffly in what might’ve been sympathy—or guilt. 

She kept her eyes forward. 

But she saw the way they moved out of her path. 

Like she was either something precious, or something cursed. A vase with a hundred invisible cracks, too dangerous to carry and too delicate to ignore. 

A child’s laugh rang out from across the street. It startled her. 

She blinked and kept going. 

Past the bakery. Past the well. Past the bench where her mother used to rest after market runs. 

Her breath was shallow, her fists clenched in the sleeves of her sweater. Every step hurt—not physically, but in that old, soul-deep ache that came from being seen when all you wanted was to disappear. 

And then, finally, the stables. 

She stopped at the gate, one hand gripping the post. 

She was here. 

She’d done it. 

And somehow, that made her want to cry all over again. 

She stood, leaning against a wooden post just outside the stables. Both hands wrapped tightly around the splintered wood like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth. Her fingers dug in, cold and pale. 

Her breath hitched. 

The world felt far away, muffled, like she was underwater. There was a sharp ringing in her ears.

She couldn’t move. 

Her knees felt locked, her chest barely rising. Her eyes were open, but they weren’t seeing—not really.

The air pressed in. 

She didn’t know how long she stood there—seconds, minutes. Long enough for her muscles to ache from the tension. Long enough for her throat to go dry from holding back whatever emotion had risen like bile in her chest. 

Then—a hand. 

Gentle. Solid. Real. 

It landed on her shoulder, and she flinched—but the warmth broke through the numbness. Her eyes snapped wide as if someone had yanked her from a dream. 

A voice, low and careful: 
“Hey. You okay?” 

She blinked. The ringing eased, just slightly. 

She looked over her shoulder—unsure of who she expected—but grateful, even if she couldn’t say why. 

Normally, she would have flinched at an uninvited touch. But not this time. 

Not with him. 

She was grateful. 

Her fingers loosened slightly around the post as she turned her head, her breath still uneven. Jesse stood there, hand still on her shoulder, eyes scanning her face like he was trying to measure just how close she was to shattering. 

He looked worried—obviously—but tried not to show it. Tried to play it casual, like maybe if he didn’t spook her, she’d stay. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked gently. 

Eira’s voice came out quiet, raspy like it hadn’t been used in days. “I wanted to see Bran,” she said. “Maybe… take him out for a ride.” 

Jesse nodded slowly, like he was still processing the fact that she was actually standing there in front of him. That she was talking. That she’d come out at all. 

He dropped his hand from her shoulder, careful not to make her feel cornered. “He’s in the back stall,” he said. “I brushed him down earlier. He’s been… restless lately. I think he misses you.” 

There was no pity in his tone. Just something steadier. Something like understanding. 

Eira didn’t trust herself to answer. She just nodded, both hands still gripping the post—less tightly now. 

Jesse waited a second longer, then offered, “You want me to come with you?” 

Her eyes flicked to his. Vulnerable. Guarded. But then… she gave the smallest nod. 

And together, they took the first step. 

As they reached the stable doors, Jesse hesitated before speaking again, voice careful. “You can take him out for a ride—around the town. Just… not outside the gates. Not yet. You don’t know the area well enough.” 

That almost broke her. 

Not because it was unfair—but because it was true. 

Her fingers curled into her palm. She wanted to ride. Really ride. Feel the wind in her hair and Bran beneath her, fast and free, the world blurring at the edges the way it used to on the farm. 

To run so far and so fast she forgot where she was. 

Forgot who she was. 

But those gates were a wall now. And the memory of freedom was just that—a memory. 

She blinked hard. Swallowed it down. And nodded again. Just once. 

Inside, Bran nickered softly. As if he knew. 

Eira stepped quietly into the stable, the familiar scent of hay, earth, and horses wrapping around her like an old coat. Bran stood in the back stall, ears twitching, hooves shifting in soft straw. The moment he saw her, he gave a soft snort and lifted his head high, eyes brightening. 

She didn’t say anything—not yet. Just walked to him, slow and deliberate. Her hand reached out, brushing his neck, his shoulder. Then he shoved his head up into her arms, the full weight of it pressing into her chest like he was trying to tuck himself into her ribcage. 

Eira let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her arms came up around his head, holding him tightly—forehead resting between his ears, her fingers tangling into his mane. 

She hadn’t cried in days. Not properly. But now? The tears welled fast, spilling soundlessly down her cheeks. Bran didn’t move. Just stood there, still and warm and real, the only thing that had stayed constant. 

After a while, she reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the old MP3 player. 

Scuffed, scratched, the screen barely readable. It still had a charge—somehow. She hadn’t dared use it much since her mother’s passing. The batteries inside had been the last thing Thea had given her—slid across the table in silence, wrapped in a scrap of cloth.

Now, Eira slipped the earbuds in and scrolled to one of the old playlists. Classic dadrock. Her father’s favorites. Hers too, by inheritance. A steady drumbeat kicked in, followed by guitar riffs that echoed somewhere deep in her bones. 

It wasn’t much. But it was hers. 

She brushed the tears off her cheeks with the back of her glove and gave Bran one last squeeze. Then she grabbed the saddle. If she couldn’t leave the walls, fine. 

She’d ride anyway. 

Chapter Text

This became Eira’s new rhythm. Every morning, just after dawn, she’d walk the same path to the stables. She never rushed. Never spoke. Just moved like the routine itself was the only thing keeping her from dissolving. 

She’d brush Bran with careful hands, talking to him in low murmurs he probably didn’t understand, but listened to anyway. She oiled his tack, cleaned his hooves, adjusted the saddle like her father once taught her—movements that had once been second nature on the farm but now felt sacred. Bran would nudge her shoulder gently when she got too quiet, as if reminding her he was still there. As if saying, me too. 

After grooming, she’d ride him slowly around the edges of town. Never beyond the gates. Jesse had told her that was off-limits. She hadn’t argued. She didn’t have the fight for it anymore. But the moment they neared the outer fence, her body tensed. She’d halt for a beat too long, eyes catching on the blurred tree line. 

Then she’d turn him around. Ride the long way back. 

Music played in her ears as she rode—quietly, always quietly. The MP3 player pressed to her chest like a heartbeat she could still control. The songs were a patchwork of her father’s old dad rock: worn chords, scratchy vocals, verses full of promises from a world long gone. Each one cracked something inside her. But they kept her moving. 

Until one morning, they didn’t. 

Mid-verse, the music cut out. A sharp, final click. Then silence. 

Eira stopped Bran. Looked down at the small screen. 

Dead. 

She hit the buttons. Hard. Again. Again. Like she could will life back into it. Her breath came quick, too sharp in the cold. Her throat tightened. 

She pressed the MP3 against her mouth for a moment, as if to breathe it back to life. 

Nothing. 

She rode back to the gate slow, unseeing. Her fingers barely held the reins. When they passed through, her whole body sagged. She slid off Bran like her bones had given up and half-stumbled toward the bench beside the rusted mailbox. She collapsed there, boots thudding against slush. 

And just sat. Arms loose at her sides. Back curled like a question mark. Her face blank. Her eyes wide and empty. 

She didn’t cry. 

She couldn’t. 

Not without the music. 

The MP3 player was clutched in her hand as she walked home. Her thumb rubbed the buttons raw, over and over, her mind circling the silence. The wind bit at her face, but she didn’t lift her head. She passed the bakery. The blacksmith’s. Didn’t see who nodded at her, or who didn’t. 

Then boots. Heavy ones. Crunching toward her. 

Joel. 

She almost didn’t recognize him in the swirl of her fog. But he slowed. Stopped. Looked at her hand. 

“Whatcha got there, girl?” he asked, voice low, rough like gravel under snow. 

She didn’t answer right away. Just stared at him. Took him in. 

They’d passed each other maybe a dozen times since she arrived in Jackson. He always gave a quiet nod or a brief “mornin’.” Never pushed. Never lingered. And she’d barely acknowledged him—just a flick of her eyes, a nod in return, nothing more. Like she couldn’t afford to see people too clearly. 

But today, for some reason, she saw him. 

Broad shoulders wrapped in that same worn jacket. The gray threaded through his beard, the lines around his eyes that said he’d lived hard and long.

Attractive though, she thought, almost against her will. For a man his age.

“An MP3,” she murmured. “It’s dead. No batteries.” 

He gave a quiet grunt that might have been a chuckle. “That’s a shame. Could fix that easy. I can get you some, if you’ve got somethin’ to trade.” 

She hesitated, then gave a weak shrug. “I don’t know what you’d want. You can look. We don’t—I don’t have much.” 

He nodded. “Don’t need much. Just fair.” He paused, then added gently, “Music’s worth holdin’ onto.” 

He started to walk. Two steps, maybe three. 

“Wait.” 

Her voice broke the air like ice cracking. She reached out, hand almost grabbing his sleeve. Her breath caught. 

“Could you do it now?” 

He stopped. Turned. Looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time. Really seeing. 

“You sure?” 

She nodded. “I just… I really need to listen to something.” 

Joel tipped his head. “Alright then. Lead the way.” 

And for the first time since she’d come to Jackson, Eira fell into step beside someone—walking not because she had to, but because she’d asked. 

Joel stepped through the doorway of the makeshift house, the one he’d patched together with spare boards and salvaged nails months ago. It had once been a summer cabin, barely insulated, barely livable—but he'd made it work. Enough to keep the worst of the cold out. Enough to give them a roof when they had nowhere else to go. 

His boots thudded gently against the wood floor as he looked around. The place was quiet. Sparse. Still too full of absence. 

Then he saw it—near the back wall, just above the small shelf where someone had once tried to store blankets: a soft water stain spreading outward, darkening the boards in a slow, creeping bloom. 

Joel stepped closer, brow furrowing. He reached up, touched the wall lightly with his fingers. Damp. Recent. 

“I can come over and fix this for you some day if you want,” he said, not looking at her at first. “It’s not good to leave stuff like this too long. Could rot through.” 

Eira blinked, caught off guard. She turned to follow his gaze, only now seeing the stain. She hadn't noticed it before—hadn’t really looked up since they moved in. Her shoulders dropped slightly, a breath catching in her chest. 

“I didn’t even see it,” she admitted quietly. “I… I guess I don’t look around much when I’m home. Mostly just… keep my head down.” 

Joel gave a slow nod, not pressing her on it. He understood. Sometimes it was easier not to look at the cracks. 

“Doesn’t take long,” he said gently. “Just need a day when the weather’s dry. I’ll bring my tools by.” 

Eira nodded, eyes still on the ceiling now—really seeing it. “Thanks.” 

And for a moment, the silence between them wasn’t heavy. It was just quiet. The kind of quiet that let light in through the cracks. 

Joel looked at her, really looked—his gaze lingering just a beat too long. Not with judgment, but with the kind of quiet scrutiny that comes from a man who’s seen too much and still somehow wants to understand. His eyes flicked across her face, searching, measuring, softening just a little at the edges. 

Then he finally broke the silence with a low, dry drawl. “So… what do you have to show me? I’m sure you got somethin’ worth tradin’.” 

Eira blinked, as if pulled out of a fog. “Oh—yeah. Right.” 

She stepped back, brushing her hands against her thighs as if to ground herself. “Wait right here,” she said quickly. “I’ll be right back.” 

And she turned, slipping down the narrow hallway, disappearing into the small back room. Joel stayed where he was, his eyes following the space she'd just left, brow faintly furrowed. 

Outside, the wind pressed gently against the thin walls of the cabin. Inside, Joel stood quietly in the middle of the room, surrounded by signs of a life still trying to remember how to begin again. 

Eira reappeared moments later, clutching a canvas bag to her chest like it might crumble if she held it any looser. She didn’t look at Joel right away. Her eyes were fixed on the bag—on what it meant, on what it held. Her knuckles were white against the worn fabric. 

“I haven’t opened this since we got here,” she said quietly, voice barely above a breath. “Didn’t want to. Didn’t… need to. Until now.” 

Joel didn’t speak. He just nodded once, letting the silence stretch without pushing. 

Eira moved to the table and set the bag down slowly. Her hands hesitated at the zipper, fingers trembling for half a second before she forced them steady. When she opened it, the faintest trace of that old, dusty air from Pinedale rose with it. It smelled like cold shelves and concrete and distant rot. 

Joel’s eyes had drifted over the bag’s contents, lingering briefly on the batteries—until they caught on something else. 

Three small cloth sacks, tucked near the bottom, cinched shut with thin cord. 

He reached in and lifted one, giving it a soft squeeze. The familiar sound and feel of beans shifting inside made his brow lift just slightly. He looked at Eira. 

“Is this what I think it is?” he asked, voice a little softer. 

Eira gave a small nod. “Un-ground. Found them in Pinedale.” 

Joel let out a slow breath, almost a whistle. “Damn.” 

He didn’t say it, but the look on his face said everything—like he’d just been handed a piece of gold. 

“I’ve been rationing half a scoop a week for the past three months,” he said with a half-smirk. “Didn’t think I’d see real beans again.” 

“You can have them,” Eira said before she could think. Then added, quieter, “I don’t really want them around anymore.” 

Joel paused. He didn’t argue. Just nodded again, slower this time, then set the bag of beans carefully down next to the batteries, like it was something sacred. 

“This more than covers the batteries,” he said. 

Eira gave the faintest nod, her fingers resting lightly on the edge of the table. 

Joel looked back down into the bag, then over at her, scanning her face again, softer this time. 

“You sure?” he asked. 

“I’m sure,” she whispered. 

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was… respectful. 

Joel gently gathered the coffee bags into his arms. As he did, he gave the table a little nod. 

“I’ll swing by tomorrow. Fix that roof like I said.” 

“Okay,” Eira replied. 

Joel turned toward the door, paused halfway, and glanced back. 

“You keep that MP3 close,” he said. “And when you get it runnin’ again… play somethin’ loud.” 

She almost smiled. “Yeah,” she said, just barely. “I will.” 

Then he left. And for the first time in weeks, the cabin didn’t feel quite so empty. 

The next day, Eira heard the familiar crunch of boots on frost-hardened earth. She opened the door just as Joel raised his hand to knock. He gave a short nod, then held up a small paper bag. 

“Got somethin’ for you,” he said. 

Inside were not just a few batteries—there were three full, unopened packs. Enough to keep her MP3 going for months. 

“I still owe you for all this coffee,” he added, setting the bag on the table. “Let me know when you need anything else.” 

Then, without waiting for thanks or conversation, he rolled up his sleeves and headed toward the ladder he’d leaned against the cabin wall. 

“I’ll start with the west side. Looks like it’s the worst.” 

Eira stood in the doorway, clutching the bag of batteries like it was something fragile. She didn’t say anything at first—just watched him climb, position himself on the roof, and get to work with the slow, methodical care of someone who’d done this a dozen times before. 

She hadn’t expected kindness to come like this: quiet, wordless, and covered in sawdust. But it was real. And she held on to it. 

Joel worked for two hours before finally taking a break. The roof wasn’t perfect, but it was better. It would hold through the next rain, maybe the one after that too. 

He stepped down into the kitchen, wiping his hands on an old rag before dropping into a chair at the small table. The silence was comfortable, the kind that didn’t demand anything. 

Eira hovered nearby, fingers twitching like she was building up to something. Eventually, she said, “I think I have something to ask for.” 

Joel looked up, one brow raised. “Oh? Well—ask and you shall have.” 

She hesitated, then met his eyes. “I want to go outside the gates. I need to run with Bran.” 

Joel blinked. That was not the ask he was expecting. 

He leaned back in the chair, the weight of her words settling in like dust. “That so?” 

Eira nodded. “Not far. Just enough. I miss it. The speed. The wind in my face. Like it used to be.” 

Joel rubbed his jaw, thinking. “You know that’s not a small ask. Place ain’t exactly tame outside.” 

“I know,” she said. “But I’m not trying to run away. I just need this.” 

Joel sighed, a long slow breath. “You bringin’ that MP3?” 

She blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah. Probably.” 

A corner of his mouth lifted. “Then I’ll think about it.” 

“You’ll think about it?” 

“I didn’t say no.” He stood, grabbing his tools again. At the door, he paused and glanced back. 

“But if I say yes… you’re not going alone. Clear?” 

“Crystal,” Eira said. 

Joel nodded once, then went back to work.

Chapter Text

The wind cut low across Jackson, rustling through fences and rooftops like it was hunting for cracks to slip into. Joel pulled his coat tighter and stepped off the porch, boots crunching over a thin crust of frost as he headed toward the town hall. 

He hadn’t said yes to Eira. Not yet. 

But the way she’d looked at him—that quiet, brittle hope buried beneath everything else—it’d been enough. Enough to make him think about it all night. Enough to make him walk here now. 

Maria’s voice carried down the hallway before he even knocked. 

“I’m telling you, if we don’t reroute the water line before first thaw, it’s going to flood the entire west end of the garden beds—” 

Tommy cut in, half-laughing. “It won’t. Not unless someone puts a damn canoe in the irrigation trench again.” 

Joel knocked once, hard enough to interrupt them. Tommy opened the door, brow lifting. 

“Well, speak of the devil. You here to save me from another one of Maria’s infrastructure crusades?” 

Maria smirked behind her desk. “Don’t tempt me to hand him the maps.” 

Joel stepped inside, hat in hand. “Ain’t here to save either of you.” 

Tommy’s expression changed subtly—less joking now. “What’s wrong?” 

Joel didn’t sit. He stayed standing, fingers fidgeting around the brim of his hat. “It’s Eira.” 

That quieted them both. 

“She asked me to take her outside. Past the gates.” 

Maria’s brow knit immediately. “Outside? Why?” 

“Says she needs to ride. Not just around the fences—really ride. Like she used to.” 

Tommy leaned forward, folding his arms across the table. “You say yes?” 

Joel shook his head. “Not yet.” 

“And you want to?” Tommy asked. 

Joel looked at the floor, then out the window behind Maria. The mountains were gray with distance. The trees darker still. 

“She ain’t great. But she’s tryin’. Keeps to herself though.” 

Maria was quiet for a moment, then sat back slowly. “You volunteering?” 

“I am.” 

Tommy let out a breath. “You think she’s ready?” 

Joel’s voice was steady, but quiet. “I don’t think any of us ever really are.” 

Maria studied him, as if weighing more than just his words. Finally, she gave a single, slow nod. “If anyone’s taking her, it’s you. You’ve seen what’s out there. You’ll keep her safe.” 

Joel nodded, grateful but grim. “I’ll keep her alive. That’s all I can promise.” 

Maria’s voice softened. “Sometimes that’s the most anyone can do.” 

Tommy stood and clapped a hand on Joel’s shoulder. “Don’t let her go too far. Just enough.” 

Joel nodded once more, then turned to go. The frost had started to melt just slightly on the boards outside. But the cold still bit through everything it touched. 

He could feel it in his bones. 
Something was shifting. 

Joel pushed the door open just after noon. The scent of woodsmoke greeted him first, followed by the unmistakable tang of something slightly burnt. He stepped in, closing the cold out behind him. 

Ellie sat at the table, legs kicked up, picking at the edge of a half-eaten grilled cheese. “You’re late,” she said without looking up. 

“Didn’t realize I was on your schedule,” Joel muttered, hanging up his coat. 

“Yeah, well. I figured maybe you fell off a roof or something.” 

“Damn near did,” Joel replied, setting a worn paper sack on the table. “But I brought somethin’ that might make up for it.” 

Ellie raised an eyebrow as she leaned over. Her nose wrinkled with a sharp intake of breath. “No way. Is that what I think it is?” 

Joel sat down and gave a small nod. “Coffee. Real beans. Unopened. Three bags.” 

Her eyes widened. “You hit the lottery? Or did you finally rob Maria’s stash?” 

Joel smirked faintly. “Got it from Eira.” 

“Wait—Eira? You went to her house?” 

“Yeah,” he said, almost a little too casual. “Dropped off some batteries for her MP3. She gave me the beans in return.” 

Ellie blinked. “Jesus. You got that for a few batteries? Did you at least pretend to feel guilty?” 

“She offered,” Joel said, leaning back. “Didn’t want it around anymore.” 

Ellie gave him a slow, skeptical look, then grinned. “You’re totally hittin’ on her.” 

Joel jerked his head back. “What?” 

“Come on,” she said. “Fixing her roof? Trading for her favorite thing in the world? Sitting in her kitchen like a cowboy therapist?” 

“Jesus, Ellie,” he muttered, exasperated. “She’s more than half my age.” 

Ellie shrugged. “So a Full consenting adult?” 

“Ain’t about that,” Joel said quickly, a hint of color rising in his face. “It ain’t right. That’s all I’m sayin’.” 

Ellie raised an eyebrow, amused. “Right. You’re just emotionally invested in her MP3.” 

“I’m helpin’ her,” Joel snapped, more defensive than he meant to be. “That’s it. She’s been through enough without people lookin’ at her sideways.” 

Ellie watched him for a second longer, then leaned back, more thoughtful than teasing now. “Okay,” she said. “Just… don’t close yourself off if something does feel right. You’re allowed to care about people, Joel. Even young ones with way too much trauma and a love of dadrock.” 

He snorted. “Says the teenager who used to threaten people with a switchblade over cassette tapes.” 

“Exactly,” she grinned. “Soulmates.” 

Joel rolled his eyes and stood up to grab a mug from the shelf. “You’re impossible.” 

“And you’re predictable.” 

As Joel poured the last of their rationed instant coffee, he shook his head. But under the annoyance, there was the faintest twitch of a smile. 

Joel sat at the desk in his room, sleeves rolled, a chipped mug of cooling coffee off to one side. The lamp beside him cast a dim, steady glow, just enough to see by. In front of him, spread out across the scratched wooden surface, lay the disassembled parts of a broken revolver—old, rusted, useless to anyone but someone with time and quiet hands. 

He wasn’t really trying to fix it. 

Not yet, anyway. 

His fingers moved out of habit, not purpose. Cleaning. Re-aligning. Taking something ruined and making it whole again—at least a little. That’s what he did when the thinking got too loud. 

And tonight, it was loud. 

Eira had asked to go outside the gates. On horseback. Just like that. 

She hadn’t begged. Hell, she hadn’t even raised her voice. But something in the way she’d said it—it stuck. Like she wasn’t asking for a favor, but for a chance to breathe again. 

Joel tightened the tiny screw between his thumb and forefinger, jaw set. 

He didn’t know her well. Just the pieces people let slip: she’d been through hell, and then some. But he’d seen her, quiet as a shadow, brushing that horse like it was the only thing tethering her to this world. And when she’d held out that bag of coffee—when her hands had shaken just a little—it hit him harder than it should’ve. 

He wasn’t a damn therapist. He didn’t know how to help someone like her. But he did know what it felt like to need the road under your feet, the wind in your ears, just to keep from drowning. 

Still. She wasn’t ready. Was she? 

He sighed through his nose and set the revolver’s cylinder down gently, letting it click against the wood. His eyes drifted toward the dark window. 

Maybe tomorrow, before heading to Eira’s, he’d go see Gail Lynden. She had the kind of insight he didn’t. She might be able to tell him whether Eira could handle that ride… or if Joel was just projecting his own shit onto a girl he barely knew. 

Joel leaned back in his chair, the old wood creaking beneath him. The revolver lay in parts on the table, forgotten for the moment. He stared at the lamp’s glow catching the edge of a bullet casing, mind drifting. 

Ellie’s voice echoed back to him—“So a full consenting adult?” 

He huffed a dry, humorless laugh through his nose. “Jesus,” he muttered to no one. “More than half my age.” 

Twenty-five now. Four when it all went to hell. 

Too young to remember anything. Not for real. 

Except— 

Sarah’d been four once. 

Tiny thing with crooked pigtails and a gap in her smile. Used to ask if thunder could break the sky. Made up songs about their old dog, sang ’em off-key. 

Joel blinked, jaw tight. Pushed the thought aside. No good came from going there. 

“It ain’t right, that’s all I’m sayin’.” That was what he’d told her. 

And he meant it. Mostly. 

Sure, Eira was… pretty. Anyone with eyes could see that. Sharp features, soft voice, eyes like storm clouds just before rain. And yeah, there was something about her—something fragile, but not broken. Like a glass blade. But before the thought even finished forming, Joel shut it down. 

He rubbed his hand over his jaw, gritting his teeth. Don’t think about that. 

She wasn’t Sarah. Wasn’t Ellie. She wasn’t a kid he had to protect, and she sure as hell wasn’t someone to project his own grief onto. 

But damn if his brain wasn’t trying to find a shape to put her in. Some place where she made sense. 

Friend? Maybe. Eventually. 

But right now, she was something else entirely. 

Not family. Not a stranger. Just a girl trying to keep her pieces together in a world that didn’t care if they stayed put. 

Joel looked back down at the revolver. The cylinder was still lying there, clean now, gleaming faintly in the lamp light. Just waiting for someone to finish the job. 

He picked it up again, slower this time. His fingers steadied, one piece at a time. 

Tomorrow he’d talk to Gail. Maybe then he’d know what to do. 

Or at least how not to make it worse. 

Chapter Text

The cold hadn’t fully left Jackson, but it was retreating. The snow that had blanketed the ground for months was thinning, receding in uneven patches. Grass poked through in spots like stubborn survivors, slick with meltwater. The air still bit if you weren’t layered up, but it no longer felt like it had teeth. 

Joel pulled his coat tighter as he made his way toward the old medical wing. The thaw was making the roads slick with mud, but he moved steadily, boots crunching through patches of ice and gravel. He passed a few early risers carting kindling, one of the patrol dogs sniffing at puddles. 

He wasn’t sure what he expected this morning—only that he needed to talk to Gail. 

She lived above the clinic in a converted loft, second floor, windows too high to see out of unless you were looking hard. Joel figured that was intentional. Gail didn’t like to be observed. 

He knocked once. Firm, but not hard. 

No answer. 

He knocked again and leaned in. “It’s Joel.” 

A few seconds passed before the door cracked open, and there she was—Gail Lynden. Same shoulder-length hair tucked behind one ear, same sharp, tired eyes that could strip a man bare without raising her voice. 

She looked at him like she was measuring his reasons for coming. Then she stepped aside. “Come in.” 

The loft was warm, cluttered with books, blankets, a teapot steaming gently in the corner. The scent of rosemary and old paper clung to the room. Joel stepped inside, hands in his pockets, taking it all in. 

“You come to fix something?” Gail asked, motioning to the worn chair across from hers. “Or break something?” 

He sat. “Neither. Just… need your thoughts on something.” 

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s rare.” 

Joel didn’t rise to the jab. “It’s about Eira.” 

Gail’s expression didn’t change, but she folded her hands and leaned forward slightly. “Go on.” 

“I told Tommy I’d take her outside the gates,” Joel said. “Not far. Just a ride. She asked for it. Hasn’t pushed, but you can tell—it means somethin’ to her.” 

Gail nodded slowly. “And you’re worried it’s the wrong call.” 

He let out a breath through his nose. “I don’t know. I figure getting out there, feeling like herself again, maybe that helps. Maybe it don’t. But she’s been stuck. And I don’t want her sinkin’ any deeper.” 

Gail considered that for a moment, eyes narrowed in thought. “You’ve spent time with her?” 

Joel shrugged. “Fixed her roof. Got her some batteries for an old MP3 player. We talked a little.” 

“She talk about herself?” 

“No. Not much. She mostly… listens. Watches. Like she’s still deciding if she wants to be here.” 

Gail nodded, like that sounded about right. “I’ve been going over most days. She keeps the curtains closed but lets me in. Still hasn’t opened up. But when I mentioned you yesterday, she didn’t flinch.” 

That made Joel glance up.  

Gail shook her head. “Not a win, but not nothing.” 

He looked down at his hands. “So… what do you think? Letting her out there with me?” 

Gail leaned back, exhaling slowly. “I think it’s a good idea. As long as she knows she can come back. Keep it short. Familiar terrain. Let her feel the reins in her hands again.”

Joel gave a slow nod. “I can do that.”

“I’ll check in on her later,” Gail said, almost to herself. But then she looked up at Joel.

“And Joel,” she added, “make sure you’re doing this for her.” 

He blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

She gave him a look—flat, knowing. “You carry ghosts too. Don’t use hers to carry yours.” 

He stiffened a little, but didn’t argue. 

Gail stood, moving to the window. She peeled back the edge of the curtain and looked out at the slushy streets, the skeletal trees, the stirrings of spring trying to claw its way through the thaw. 

“She’s not broken,” Gail said softly. “She’s grieving. There’s a difference. Don’t treat her like glass.” 

Joel stood too, adjusting his jacket. “Not planning on it.” 

She turned, a faint smile in her eyes. “Good.” 

He reached the door and paused, hand on the knob. 

“You think she’s gonna be okay?” 

Gail didn’t answer right away. “She’s still showing up,” she finally said. “That’s the best any of us can do.” 

Joel gave her a small nod, then stepped back into the cold. 

Out on the road, the meltwater ran in quiet streams, and the world smelled like wet earth and thawing wood. The worst of winter might’ve passed. 

But what came next wasn’t always easier. 

The walk to the Millers’ wasn’t far, but Joel took his time. The path was muddy, the melting snow mixing with gravel and ash from the town’s fire pits. Spring was clawing its way in—but it brought more mess before it brought anything good. 

When he knocked on Tommy and Maria’s door, it was Maria who answered. 

“Joel,” she said, surprised. “You eat yet?” 

“Not yet.” 

She stepped aside. “Come in. Tommy just got back from patrol.” 

Tommy was still half in uniform, sitting at the table, stripping the oil from his rifle with practiced, absent hands. He looked up when Joel entered. 

“Hey, big brother,” he said. “What’s got you out this early?” 

Joel nodded in greeting, shut the door behind him. “I talked to Gail.” 

Tommy’s hands paused. “About Eira?” 

“Yeah. She thinks it might do her good to get outside the gates. Just a short ride. I said I’d take her.” 

Maria leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, expression unreadable. 

Tommy set the rifle cloth down. “You sure that’s wise?” 

Joel sat across from him. “I don’t know if it’s wise. But I think it’s right.” 

Maria exhaled softly. “We’ve kept her in for a reason. She’s not stable.” 

“She’s not dangerous either,” Joel replied. “She’s grieving. That’s not the same thing.” 

Tommy studied his brother. “You got a read on her?” 

“Not a full one. But I’ve seen worse cases fall apart a lot faster than her. She’s still tryin’. Keeps showin’ up. That means somethin’.” 

Maria shifted her weight. “How far?” 

“Not far. Edge of the old highway, maybe. Stay in sight of the towers. I’ll keep her in line.” 

Tommy leaned back, looking at Maria. “What do you think?” 

Maria didn’t answer right away. Her eyes drifted to the window, where the wind was blowing stray bits of melted snow off the rooftops. When she spoke, her voice was lower. 

“She needs to feel human again. If this is how she starts… maybe we let her.” 

Joel gave a small nod. “I’ll keep her safe. I promise.” 

Tommy finally cracked a dry smile. “You’d better. That girl’s got more eyes on her than you think.” 

Joel’s mouth twisted. “Yeah, I noticed.” 

Maria walked past and handed Joel a thermos from the counter. “You’ll take food with you. And not a word to the council until you’re back.” 

Joel raised the thermos in thanks. “Not my first run outta the gates.” 

“No,” Maria said, half-smiling. “But it’s hers since she came here.” 

Tommy stood and clapped Joel on the shoulder. “Let us know when you're heading out. We’ll have someone keep to the gate.” 

Joel nodded. “Will do.” 

He left with the thermos in hand, coat flapping behind him, boots sucking slightly in the slush. 

Tomorrow, he’d take Eira out. Just far enough. 

She needed to breathe. 

The knock came around noon, softer than most. Two raps, a pause, then a third. Eira already knew who it was. 

She sat at the small table by the window, her tea long since gone cold. She hadn't touched it. Her fingers, tucked in the sleeves of a threadbare sweater, tapped an uneven rhythm against the wood. 

She didn’t answer the door—just called out, voice quiet but clear. “It’s open.” 

The door creaked as Gail Lynden stepped in, wrapped in a long wool coat, hair tucked into a knit cap. Her cheeks were red from the cold, but her eyes were as sharp as ever. 

“Hey there,” she said gently, pulling the door shut. “Still chilly out. Snow’s meltin’, though. Almost stepped in a puddle the size of a canoe on the way here.” 

Eira didn’t smile, but the corner of her mouth twitched. A little. 

Gail slipped off her gloves, rubbing her hands together for warmth. “How you doing today?” 

Eira looked down at her tea, then out the window. “Didn’t sleep much.” 

“Still getting the dreams?” Gail asked, casual but attentive. 

Eira shrugged. 

Gail didn’t push. She wandered a little, hanging her coat on the back of a chair. “You been out yet?” 

“Went to the stables,” Eira murmured. “Bran’s good.” 

“That horse’s gonna get spoiled, all the care you give him.” 

Eira’s fingers paused on the table. “He deserves it.” 

“I bet he thinks the same about you.” 

A silence settled between them, not an uncomfortable one. Gail moved into the kitchen and poured herself some of the cold tea, not bothering to heat it. She took a sip and made a sour face. 

“Awful,” she muttered. “Why do I keep drinking this?” 

Eira leaned back in her chair, arms folded loosely. She could feel it—the question hovering in the room like steam that hadn’t quite lifted. Gail wasn’t here for tea. Not really. 

“Joel talked to you,” Eira said flatly, not pretending. 

Gail raised her eyebrows, but didn’t deny it. “He did.” 

“And?” 

“He said you asked him to take you out on a ride. Outside the walls.” 

Eira didn’t answer right away. Her fingers picked at a loose thread on her sleeve. 

“I just…” Her voice was low, almost a sigh. “I need to get out. I need to see something that isn’t fences and sideways glances. I don’t want to ride in circles and pretend I don’t notice how people look at me. I just want to feel something close to normal. Whatever that means now.” 

Gail tilted her head, studying Eira like someone turning over the corners of a folded map. 

“So,” she said gently, “why Joel?” 

Eira looked away, jaw tightening. “Because Jesse already told me no.” 

“And Tommy?” 

“I didn’t think of Tommy.” Her voice was quiet. Honest. “Didn’t really seem like something I’d ask him.” 

Gail arched a brow. “But Joel did?” 

Eira’s fingers resumed picking at the thread. 

“Well… I traded him all my coffee. Three whole bags of unground beans. I originally wanted batteries for my MP3 since it died, but he said he still owed me for the coffee. So I just asked. It was the first thing I thought of.” 

Eira looked away, as if searching for anything else to say. Gail almost interrupted, but Eira kept going. 

“I thought I heard Joel goes on patrol pretty often, so he might be the best for the job—since he already owed me a favour.” 

Gail leaned back slightly, watching her with a quiet kind of curiosity. 

“Joel, huh?” she said, not unkindly. 

Eira gave a small nod. “He owed me. I just… asked.” 

Gail didn’t respond right away. She looked down, thumb brushing a chipped edge on her mug. 

“You know,” she said eventually, “he doesn’t say much. Even when he’s supposed to.” 

Eira glanced at her. 

“I don’t mean that as a warning,” Gail clarified. “Just… Joel’s the kind of man who carries things close. Heavy things. Doesn’t always make him easy to be around.” 

She paused. 

“But he listens. More than people think.” 

Eira’s eyes flicked away again. “I didn’t feel like I had to explain myself to him.” 

Gail nodded slowly. “That doesn’t happen often. With him, I mean.” 

Another beat of silence. 

“I don’t know why he said yes,” she admitted, “but I know he doesn’t do anything unless he means to. Joel’s careful, even when he’s not gentle.” 

Eira let out a small breath. “He doesn’t look at me like I’m something fragile.” 

Gail’s gaze softened. “Maybe he sees something familiar.” 

Eira’s brow furrowed. She looked up. 

“‘Something familiar’?” she echoed. “What do you mean?” 

Gail hesitated. Her fingers tapped lightly against her mug. 

“I mean…” she said slowly, “Joel’s been through things. Hard things. He wouldn’t argue that.” 

Eira didn’t speak—just watched her, waiting. 

“But,” Gail continued, “he doesn’t talk about most of it. Hell, he barely talks to me. And the things he has told me… that’s not mine to hand over.” 

Eira’s gaze softened a little, but the question still lingered. 

“I’m not trying to be cryptic,” Gail added. “But if he sees something in you—some part of himself, maybe—he knows what it is to carry weight and keep walking anyway.” 

She met Eira’s eyes. “That doesn’t mean you’re the same. Just means he might not be looking at you the way you think he is.” 

Eira looked down at her hands, the frayed thread now forgotten. Her voice was quieter this time. 

“So… not pity?” 

Gail shook her head. “Not even close.” 

The words settled around her like the first warm air after frost—soft, real, not quite comfortable, but something she could breathe in. 

Her shoulders loosened, just a little. Like something inside her had unclenched. 

But even as the tension eased, something else rose in its place. 

What did Joel see, exactly? 
What had he gone through to be able to look at her and not flinch—not stiffen, not soften, not pretend? 

Hadn’t everyone lost someone? 

The last twenty years had taken from everyone she’d met. Family. Friends. Children. Futures. 

So why did her grief still feel like an open wound in a village built by survivors? 

Why did it feel like no one else knew what to do with her but to pity her? To tiptoe around her like she might shatter. 

Even Tommy—who barely said much—held tension in his voice when he asked how she was. 
Maria’s eyes were kind, but tight, like she wanted to say something and swallowed it instead. Sometimes she looked at Eira like a mother might. 

Sad eyes. Careful voice. A softness that hurt more than it helped. 

But Maria wasn’t her mother. 

Her mother was gone. 
Had made herself gone. 

So no—Maria’s kindness didn’t feel safe. She was a reminder of what Eira had lost and wouldn’t get back. 

And Jesse, even though they barely talked, always looked like he wanted to say something. But ever since she asked about going outside, something shifted. 

He still nodded when they passed. Still carried himself like he was doing the right thing. But his eyes didn’t linger. His pace always picked up, just a little. 

Like he didn’t want to be asked again. 

Like maybe he felt bad about it—but not enough to change his mind. 

It was as if Gail could read her thoughts. She cut them off— 

“Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing,” she said gently, “to spend time with people closer to your age. There’s Jesse, Dina… even Ellie.” 

Eira scoffed, the sound dry and immediate. 

“Sure,” she muttered. “Let’s just gather the emotionally stable twenty-somethings and…” 
She looked up at Gail confused. “Isn’t Ellie like… sixteen? I’m like a decade older than her.” 

Gail smiled. “That’s true. But here in Jackson? You take the friends you can get.” 

Eira didn’t look convinced. Her fingers stayed curled around her mug, expression unreadable. 

Gail sat back slightly, letting her tone stay easy. 

“I’m not saying you need to throw yourself into some group hang,” she said. “But… you might be surprised.” 

She paused, thinking. Then added, lighter now: 

“Jesse’s one of the good ones. A little too by-the-book sometimes, but that’s part of what keeps Jackson standing. He means well—even when he’s avoiding eye contact.” 

That pulled the faintest flicker from Eira’s face. Not a smile. Not quite. 

“He’s got a lot on his plate. He’s young, but people already talk like he’s supposed to take over for Maria one day. That kind of pressure makes people… stiff.” 

She glanced over—Eira was still listening. 

“And Dina,” she went on, “she burns hot and bright. Funny, sharp. A little chaotic, but her heart’s in the right place. She’ll push buttons—but never to hurt.” 

A pause. 

“Honestly? You two might get along.” 

Eira arched a skeptical brow. 

Gail smirked faintly, unbothered. 

“And Ellie… yeah, she’s younger. But she’s carved out more space for herself in this town than most adults. She’s intense. Fierce. But honest. She doesn’t pretend to be okay when she’s not.” 

She let that land before continuing. 

“All I’m saying is... They’ve all lost something. Parents, homes, pieces of themselves. So—they’re no strangers to grief.” 

Eira still didn’t answer—but this time, she wasn’t shutting down. Just quiet. 

Gail leaned back again, giving her space. 

“I’m not saying you need to be close with them. But it might not be the worst thing to let a few people stand near you without thinking they’re trying to fix you or pity you.” 

Gail didn’t say much after that. 

She stayed a few more minutes, sipping the rest of her cold, bitter tea with a small wince, like she’d forgotten just how bad it was until it touched her tongue again. The silence between them wasn’t awkward—it never really was—but it hung a little heavier now, like the room had exhaled and didn’t quite know what to breathe in next. 

Eira didn’t move. Her fingers rested around her mug, her eyes still on the window, though she wasn’t really watching anything. 

When Gail finally stood, she moved quietly, reaching for her coat without needing to say goodbye. She paused at the door just long enough to glance back. 

“You’ll have to tell me how it goes, when you get back. From the ride with Joel.” 

Eira nodded, the movement small. “Sure thing.” 

“I’ve got a few more stops,” Gail said, voice soft but steady. “Depressed people don’t tend to come out to me. I’m sure you know all about that.” 

Eira gave the faintest nod, still not looking at her. “Right.” 

“If you need anything—” Gail started. 

“Yeah, yeah…” Eira waved a hand through the air, like she could sweep the words aside. “I know where to find you.” 

Gail didn’t argue. Just gave a quiet nod, her eyes lingering on Eira for a moment longer—like she wanted to say more but knew better. 

She opened the door, letting the cold slip in around her boots. 

“Take care, Eira.” 

Eira didn’t answer. Not out loud. 

But she watched the door close behind Gail, and didn’t look away for a long time. 

Chapter Text

After Gail left, Eira lingered in the quiet, staring at the empty teacup she’d forgotten to drink from. The heat had long faded, just like the clarity of her thoughts. The conversation still sat heavy in her chest—Gail’s parting words echoing like footsteps down a long hallway: 

“You’ll have to tell me how it goes, when you get back.” 

She slipped on her boots slowly, as if each lace was a step toward something bigger than she could name. She hadn’t seen Bran in two days—not since Joel came by. Not since the batteries. Her mind had been too full, buzzing with things she wasn’t ready to say aloud. Joel’s offer. The idea of the open world beyond the gates. The way he looked at her—not like she was broken, but like she might still be worth something. 

It scared her. 

The walk to the stables was quiet. The cold bit at her, but softer now. Patches of stubborn grass peeked through the slush. Eira kept her hands in her pockets, head down, aware of how the mud pulled at her boots like it wanted her to turn back. 

She didn’t. 

The stables stood crooked against the thinning snow, familiar and unchanged. Bran neighed low when she entered, ears flicking at the sound of her steps. She exhaled slowly, tension she hadn’t realized she was holding softening in her chest. 

“Hey, you,” she murmured, crossing to him. Her hand found the side of his neck, fingers sinking into his warm coat. 

Bran leaned into her touch, huffing softly. 

“I missed you.” 

She didn’t say more. Didn’t need to. 

She brushed him down, methodical and steady, letting the rhythm ground her. Bran’s warmth against the thawing air, the scent of hay and leather—this was her place. Her before and after. Her only constant. 

But even as her hands moved, her mind drifted. To the gates. To the weight of the saddle. To Joel, arms crossed, voice low and rough: 

“You’re not going alone. Clear?” 

Clear. 

She wasn’t sure what scared her more—that he’d said yes… or that she wanted him to. 

Well, she hadn’t actually heard him say yes yet. So she had two options: wait for him to come to her… or go looking for him herself. 

Neither felt especially appealing. 

Waiting made her stomach twist. The uncertainty. The possibility that maybe he’d changed his mind. That maybe it had just been something he said in the moment, not something he meant to follow through on. 

But going to find him? That felt worse. Like asking again, like begging. And Eira had promised herself she wouldn’t do that—not anymore. 

She finished brushing Bran and gave him a final pat on the shoulder, fingers lingering just a second longer than they needed to. Then she led him out into the slushy yard, swung into the saddle, and nudged him into an easy walk. 

The town was quiet. Still early enough in the day that most folks were out on tasks—chopping, hauling, repairing. Being useful. 

Eira didn’t know exactly where Joel would be. She could check the patrol boards, or see if his name was scribbled beside Tommy’s. She could try the foreman’s office, or maybe just circle the perimeter of the housing lots and hope she caught a glimpse of that familiar, broad-shouldered frame. 

But instead of deciding, she just let Bran move beneath her, hooves soft against the melting snow as she drifted into town. 

The roads through Jackson weren’t busy, but she felt every set of eyes. Real or imagined. Every glance that lingered a second too long, every smile that didn’t quite reach the eyes. People didn’t whisper, not out loud—but Eira always heard the shape of their silence. 

She tried to shake the feeling of eyes on her, but they clung like the damp in her coat sleeves. 

Her thoughts drifted back to Joel. Maybe she didn’t have to ask again. Maybe she could just… accidentally run into him. Not a confrontation. Just a coincidence. A way to see where he stood—without putting herself back in that asking position. 

She cut down a side path near the east field, the one that edged along the workshops and storage sheds. Joel sometimes passed through here in the mornings, checking supplies or grabbing tools before patrol. 

It wasn’t a guarantee. But it was a start. 

Bran’s ears flicked at the sound of hammering nearby, but Eira kept him steady, guiding him along the muddy path with a loose grip on the reins. The cold had taken most of the bite out of the air, but her fingers still ached where the wind crept through the seams of her gloves. 

They passed the small shed where extra feed was stored, the roof still sagging despite Tommy’s promises to have it fixed before spring. No Joel. Just a few younger volunteers stacking crates, their chatter low and cautious when they saw her ride by. 

Eira kept her eyes ahead. She didn’t wave. 

She let Bran carry her through town like they had nowhere in particular to be. Past the mess hall, where smoke rose faintly from the chimney. Past the gardens, still dormant under tarp and frost. Every so often, she’d angle him toward a spot Joel might frequent—near the outer fences, the tool shed, even the greenhouse he’d helped reinforce last fall. 

Still no sign of him. 

She wasn’t sure if that made her feel relieved or disappointed. 

Eventually, she slowed Bran near the west gate. The patrol rotation board stood nailed to the post there, its laminated sheet fluttering slightly in the breeze. Eira dismounted, the impact of her boots sending up a soft splash in the thawing dirt. 

Bran huffed, tail flicking. 

She stepped closer to the board, scanning the list. Joel’s name wasn’t there—not for today, at least. Tommy’s was, alongside a newer recruit she didn’t recognize. Her eyes flicked back over the other names. No Joel. 

“Looking for someone?” 

The voice came from behind her—low, unmistakable. 

Eira turned slowly. 

Joel stood a few paces back, sleeves rolled, a wrench in one gloved hand. There was a faint streak of grease across his wrist, and he looked like he’d been working on something, probably one of the perimeter carts. 

She blinked. “Just riding.” 

Joel’s brow lifted a little, like he knew that wasn’t the whole truth—but he didn’t push. 

“Bran looks good,” he said, giving the horse a slow nod. “Glad to see he’s getting out.” 

“He needed it,” she replied. “So did I.” 

Joel nodded once. His gaze held hers, calm and unreadable. Then: 

“You still want that ride?” 

Eira’s breath caught in her chest.  

She didn’t answer right away. Just nodded. 

“Good,” he said. “Tomorrow. I’ve got the morning free.” 

“Okay.” Her voice was softer than she meant it to be. 

Joel gave a small, satisfied nod, then glanced at Bran again. “You’ll want to leave early. Roads’ll still be frozen. Less mud.” 

“Right.” 

He turned to go but paused, then looked back over his shoulder. 

“Swing on by tonight,” he said, voice low but even. “We can go through your packing. Ground rules, too.” 

Eira nodded, a quiet beat of understanding passing between them. 

“Alright,” she said. 

Joel gave one last glance toward Bran, then headed off, boots crunching through the slush without another word. 

And just like that, it wasn’t just real. 

It was happening. 

She stayed still on Bran’s back for a moment, the weight of it settling. Then, without much thought, she turned him around and nudged him back into motion—this time not searching, just riding. 

She slipped out her MP3 player, tucked in the headphones, and let the music fill the quiet spaces in her mind. 

The stares didn’t bother her today. 

She rode through town, and for the first time in a long while— 
she smiled. 

After a slow loop through town, she finally steered Bran back toward the stables. The wind had picked up, biting a little sharper now, but the ride had done what she hadn’t known she needed—it quieted the noise in her head. At least for a while. 

Bran let out a low, disapproving nicker as she dismounted. 

“I know, boy,” she murmured, tugging his reins gently as they walked inside. “But tomorrow we ride for real. You and me. Like old times.” 

She slipped off his saddle and brushed him down again, slower this time, fingertips dragging through the coarse strands of his mane. 

“Running,” she added softly. “Maybe even jumping over those old logs near the east ridge. Bet you’d like that.” 

Bran gave a soft snort, almost like he agreed. 

She refilled his water, topped off his feed, and gave him one last scratch behind the ears before she stepped away. 

Then she pulled the stable doors closed behind her and started for home. 

The walk home was quiet, her boots squelching softly through the melting snow. The kind of quiet that filled in the cracks between thoughts, between nerves she hadn’t quite settled. 

She rounded a bend near the mess hall and almost didn’t notice them at first—Jesse and a girl with dark hair and a sharp laugh that carried across the damp air. Dina, she realized a beat later. 

Eira had never spoken to her before. Had barely thought about her until Gail mentioned her that morning. 

They looked at ease together. Dina said something that made Jesse huff out a laugh and shake his head, amused and exasperated in equal measure. 

Eira hesitated. 

Not enough to stop—just enough to be seen. 

Dina noticed her first. Her expression didn’t change much, just tilted with mild curiosity as she lifted a hand in a casual wave. Not overly friendly. Not performative. Just… a hello. 

Eira blinked, caught a little off guard, and gave a small nod in return. 

Jesse turned then, and his face shifted—not awkward, exactly, but tight around the eyes. Like he wasn’t sure if he should say something or just pretend they hadn’t crossed paths. 

He settled for a nod too. 

Eira didn’t linger. 

She passed them without a word, the space between them wide enough to feel, but not quite uncomfortable. 

Dina’s wave stayed in her mind longer than expected. 

Simple. Uncomplicated. 

Maybe Gail had a point. 

By the time Eira stepped back into her cabin, the warmth inside felt strange against her skin—too still, too quiet after the air outside. She kicked the snow-muddied boots off near the door and shrugged off her coat, letting it fall across the nearest chair. 

Then she moved to the small chest at the foot of her bed and opened it. 

Her pack sat inside, right where she’d left it. She pulled it out and set it on the table, fingers already moving with a kind of muscle memory. 

Knife—check. 

First aid roll, neatly packed in an old scarf—still there. 

Something to eat? She opened one of the drawers and found a small pouch of jerky, then a wrapped biscuit that had gone slightly stale but would hold. That would do. 

Water. 

Eira glanced toward the shelf above the sink, where an old military-style canteen sat beside a dented tin mug. The canteen had a slight dent near the base, but the seal still held tight. She grabbed it, gave it a shake. Empty. 

She set it beside her pack, then added the mug—just in case. You never knew when you might need something to scoop with, or boil over a fire. 

That would do. 

She made a mental note to fill the canteen tonight. Fresh water, no shortcuts. 

She set the canteen beside the rest of the gear and took a step back, eyeing her pack like it might speak up and tell her what she was missing. 

It didn’t. 

Knife. First aid. Food. Water. 

It felt like enough. It looked like enough. 

But she didn’t think about matches. Or the flashlight tucked in the back of the kitchen drawer with dying batteries. She didn’t grab the extra pair of socks she kept in a tin near the stove, or the fraying rope she sometimes used to tie bundles of wood. 

She didn’t think about what might happen if they got stuck out there. 

Or maybe she did, and just didn’t want to stare that in the face. 

She zipped the pack closed anyway. 

It would be fine. 

Eira spent the rest of the afternoon watching the time. 

She didn’t mean to. Didn’t want to. 

But every time her eyes wandered, they landed on the clock. Tick, tick, tick. 

He’d said tonight. Just that. Not a time. No specifics. 

Did that mean after dinner? Before? When the sky turned orange? When the porch lamps flicked on? 

She glanced at the window—still light out. Still too soon. Probably. 

Her thoughts spiraled quietly. Should she bring something? 

Her mother used to say you never arrived at someone’s door empty-handed. Dinner parties, house visits, even a thank-you chat—you brought something. Wine. Flowers. Chocolate, if you really wanted to be liked. 

But Eira didn’t have wine. Or flowers. Or chocolate. 

What did people bring now, anyway? A spare tin of peaches? A candle? Ammo? Not that she had any.

She frowned. 

Do people even still do that? 

The world had cracked and reset in so many ways, but sometimes the old rules still rattled around in her head, whispering about courtesy and expectations like they still mattered. 

Maybe they did. Maybe they didn’t. 

She opened a cupboard and stared inside, looking past cans and paper scraps as if something appropriate would magically reveal itself. 

Nothing did. 

She closed it again. 

Maybe she’d just… show up. Just herself. Just her pack. That had to be enough. 

Still, she kept glancing at the clock. Wondering when enough time had passed to not seem overeager. Wondering if Joel was doing the same thing, or if he was the kind of man who never watched the clock. 

The clock neared five. 

17:00. 

Nowhere near late enough. 

Not late enough to head over, not late enough to stop thinking about heading over. 

She stood in the middle of her small living space, arms crossed, eyes dragging across the room like they might land on something useful. Something distracting. 

She could read—but her mind wouldn’t hold the words. 

Music? No—too much noise. 
Writing? Pointless. 
 

Eira let out a quiet breath through her nose. Restless didn’t even begin to cover it. 

She sat down, stood up again. Poured herself a cup of water. Didn’t drink it. 

Maybe she could go check her pack again. 
Make sure the knife was sharp, that the canteen was clean. 

Or maybe she could take a walk. Not toward Joel’s place. Just around. 

Something to wear down the minutes until tonight stopped being so vague. 

Until the waiting became doing. 

She paced the length of the small cabin, boots thudding softly against the worn wood floor. 

Back and forth. 
From the edge of the kitchen to the front window, then back again. 

Her eyes flicked toward the hallway, toward the door at the end—the one she avoided without thinking. The one she never opened. 

Her mother’s door. 

It hadn’t been touched since the day she died. 

The doorknob caught the light in a dull glint, just enough to draw Eira’s eye and keep it. 

She stopped moving. 

A chill—not from the cold—passed over her arms. Her fingers curled slightly where they hung at her sides. 

She told herself she was just passing time. Just walking. 

But now she was standing still. 
And looking straight at it. 

Eira didn’t know if she was ready. 

But her hand moved anyway. 

The doorknob was cold, the metal unmoved by time or memory. It turned with a soft click—too soft—and the door creaked open on its hinges like it had been holding its breath. 

The air inside was still. Dust clung to the edges of everything, the kind of quiet that settles in places people don’t come back to. 

It smelled faintly of cedar and old linen, and slightly musty from an unsuspecting roofleak. 

But the room felt hollow. 

A shell of something that used to be full. 

Eira stepped inside, careful like the floor might give way beneath her. She didn’t know what she was looking for. 

But she crossed the threshold anyway. 

Inside, everything was just as her mother had left it. 

The bed sat untouched, the blanket still tucked at the corners with the kind of care her mother always gave to small, quiet things. A linen cupboard stood closed against the far wall, its pale wood aged and a little warped near the bottom. 

A desk rested beneath the window, the curtain half-drawn and faded from sunlight. Dust had settled in the corners, undisturbed. 

Near the edge sat an old glass bottle of perfume, the label worn smooth with time. It had been empty for years—Eira knew that—but as she picked it up, she swore she could still smell something. A ghost of jasmine, maybe.  

Something familiar. 

And the chair— 

She reached out and lifted the scarf from the chair, slow and careful, as if it might fall apart in her hands. 

It was moss green—soft, worn in a way that made it feel gentler than anything had in a long time. 

Eira wrapped it around her neck. The fabric carried a faint trace of something old and comforting, like cedar and dried lavender, barely there beneath the dust. 

Her mother had owned it since before the outbreak. Eira didn’t know how it had survived everything—the years, the weather, the moves—but it had. 

There were a few loose threads, a corner where the seam had started to split. A little stitching could fix it. 

But to Eira, it was perfect. 

She pressed her fingers to the fabric, just for a moment. 

Chapter Text

Eira sat on the edge of her mother’s bed, careful not to shift the blankets too much. The covers were still tucked in neat corners, untouched since that morning—since the morning. Her fingers rested on her knees, her eyes drawn to the quiet folds of linen, the slight dip in the mattress where her mother had last slept. 

Eventually, she stood. Slow. Like she didn’t want the room to notice. Her boots barely creaked against the floorboards as she crossed to the linen cupboard and eased open the narrow doors. The hinges let out a soft groan, like they were waking from sleep. 

Towels. Sheets. Folded flannel. 

And beneath them—just behind an old blanket with frayed edges—were the bottles. 

Her breath caught. 

There they were. 

Glass, amber, some still half-full. Labels peeled or missing altogether, but the smell rose faint and unmistakable: the sharp burn of moonshine. 

Her mother’s secret. Her mother’s slow unraveling. 

Eira stared at them, numb and cold and burning all at once. 

Seth. It had to be. He’d kept the still going behind the bar, traded quiet bottles under the counter. Most people thought it was harmless—something to take the edge off a cold night, a hard week. 

But for her mother, it had been the edge. The thing she leaned too far into and couldn’t come back from. 

Eira crouched, fingers brushing the neck of the nearest bottle. She didn’t pick it up. Didn’t need to. 

She already knew how heavy it was. 

Knew how many were missing. 

Knew how many nights she’d heard the creak of this door, the quiet clink of glass against glass. 

Her throat tightened. Not with tears, but with something heavier. Older. 

She reached up, pushed the bottles further back, out of sight, and closed the cupboard again. 

The click of the latch echoed louder than it should have.

Eira stepped back. Her reflection caught in the dark window pane above the desk—scarf still around her neck, hands curled at her sides.  

There was a knock on the front door. Two short raps. A pause. Then a third.

Joel.

“Shit—” she muttered under her breath, spinning toward the small clock on the wall. 

Her eyes widened. 
“Shit, what time is it?” 

18:30. 

She hadn’t meant to stay in there that long. Hadn’t realized. The afternoon had slipped past her while ghosts whispered from every dusty corner of that room. 

Now Joel was at the door. 

She ran a hand through her hair, took a steadying breath, and walked toward it—still wearing the scarf. 

Eira pulled the door open, already bracing herself—but it wasn’t a stranger or one of Gail’s unexpected returns. 

It was Joel. 

He stood just off her porch, the early evening light catching faintly in his hair. One hand was in his jacket pocket, the other holding what looked like a set of folded maps. He gave her a once-over, and when his eyes landed on the scarf wrapped snug around her neck, he paused—just briefly. Didn’t comment. 

“Was headed to find you,” he said simply. “Figured maybe you got caught up.” 

Eira blinked, then rubbed the back of her neck, cheeks prickling. “Something like that.” 

Joel nodded toward the road behind him. “Got some chili on the stove. Made too much. Figured you could eat while we go through what you’ve packed.” 

That caught her off guard more than it should have. 

“You cook?” she asked before she could stop herself. 

Joel gave the faintest shrug. “When it’s cold out. And when I don’t feel like eatin’ jerky again.” 

Eira hesitated for only a second more before grabbing her pack from where it rested just inside the door. “Alright,” she said, slinging it over one shoulder. “Lead the way.” 

Joel didn’t say anything, just turned and started walking. 

She followed. 

The walk up to Joel’s place was quiet, their boots crunching softly through what remained of the day’s thaw. By the time they reached his porch, the overhead light had flicked on, casting a warm yellow glow over the worn boards and stacked firewood. 

Joel stepped up first, reaching for the door. It creaked open on a familiar groan, and he paused—holding it for her. 

Eira hesitated a beat, then stepped past him, murmuring a quiet, “Thanks.” 

Inside, the scent of something rich and slow-cooked met her first—spiced, smoky, faintly tomatoed. Chili, just like he said. 

She toed off her boots without really thinking about it, tucking them neatly to the side of the door. The floor creaked under her socked feet as she stepped further in. 

Behind her, Joel’s brow lifted. “What are you, European?” he asked, voice dry. 

Eira turned slightly, shrugging. “Just raised not to track mud into someone else’s house.” 

Joel gave a small huff of amusement but said nothing more, stepping in behind her and shutting the door. The lock clicked into place with a solid sound. 

“Kitchen’s this way,” he said, already moving. 

Eira followed, scarf still around her neck, the warmth of the house slowly sinking in. 

She hadn’t expected it to be so… homely. 

The warmth of the place settled into her skin slower than the heat from the fire, but it was there—woven into the space like a well-worn coat. The living room was modest, edges softened by time and use. A stack of books sat on the end table beside the couch, dog-eared and spine-creased. A guitar leaned in the corner near the hearth, not displayed, just… placed, like someone who still played it often. 

There was a coat hanging by the door, a second mug on the shelf, a folded blanket tossed without much ceremony over the back of the armchair. 

Lived-in. Comfortable. 

Not what she would’ve guessed. 

Joel moved with casual ease, stirring something in a pot on the stove. The smell of chili deepened as the lid came off, steam curling upward in lazy tendrils. He nodded at the pot like it might answer him, then glanced at her over his shoulder. 

“Grab a bowl, if you want.” he said. 

Eira nodded, quietly moving toward the cupboards. Her hand hovered just briefly before she opened one and pulled a bowl from the neat stack inside. 

Still silent, still taking in the details of this space—this man she knew almost nothing about, who somehow felt safer than most. 

Joel raised his voice toward the stairwell, not loud but with the kind of edge that cut through walls: 

“Ellie! Dinner!” 

No answer at first—just the faint creak of a floorboard upstairs. Then a thud. Then another. 

Eira startled slightly at the sound of Joel’s voice—not from volume, but from the weight of it. Deep and rough, steady in a way that settled in her chest more than her ears. 

She hadn’t expected to like the sound of it. 
But she did. 

She caught herself lingering on that thought, then shook her head, as if that could clear it. 

It’s just a voice, she told herself. 
But her chest still felt oddly full.  

He looked to Eira with a faint smirk. “She’ll come when she’s good and ready.” 

Eira didn’t respond, just kept her hands wrapped around the warm bowl he’d ladled full for her. The scent of chili filled the kitchen, rich and spiced, the kind of meal that felt like it had simmered for hours. She didn’t know if her stomach was ready for it—but something about the domesticity of it all, Joel’s voice calling upstairs like it was any other evening, made the edges of her thoughts ease. 

Her thoughts were cut short by the thump of heavy footsteps on the stairs—quick, careless, unmistakably teenage. 

Eira turned just as Ellie appeared, hoodie half-zipped, socks mismatched, hair a little wild like she hadn’t looked in a mirror before bounding down. There was something oddly comforting in the noise she made, in the way she filled the house without asking permission. 

Ellie hit the bottom step and froze. 

Her eyes landed on Eira—just for a second—then flicked to Joel. A slow, sly smirk pulled at her mouth. Eira caught it, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw Joel shake his head in quiet warning. 

Ellie didn’t stop. She strolled into the kitchen like she owned the place. 

“Shit,” she said, grabbing a bowl off the counter. “Didn’t know we had company tonight.” 

Before Eira could answer, Joel spoke casually, like it was nothing. 

“Made too much chili,” he said, giving the pot a stir. “And Eira needed her pack looked over before we head out tomorrow.” 

Ellie’s head snapped toward him. “What do you mean heading out tomorrow?” Her eyes jumped between them. “What, you two?” 

Joel didn’t flinch. Just stirred again, calm as ever. “She asked me to take her outside the gates. Just a short ride.” 

Ellie squinted. “Huh.” 

Just huh—but it landed like a full sentence. 

“Didn’t think you did that kind of thing anymore,” she muttered, aimed squarely at Joel. 

Joel let out a small grunt. “Well, guess I do.” 

“Right,” Ellie said, turning toward the cabinets. “Next thing I know, you’ll be offering tours.” 

He shot her a look, but Eira caught the flicker of a smile beneath it. 

Ellie dropped into a chair and gave Eira another once-over, her tone dry but not quite unfriendly. “So, chili and gear checks. That a regular thing for you, or just a Joel special?” 

Eira arched a brow, not missing the edge in her voice. “Actually,” she said, settling into the seat across from her, “I traded him three bags of coffee for tomorrow.” 

Ellie’s brows rose. “Three bags? Damn. That’s some serious currency around here.” 

Joel shot her a pointed glance. Ellie just shrugged. “What? It is.” 

“Welcome, by the way,” she added a beat later, her sarcasm softening slightly. 

“Thanks,” Eira said with a dry little chuckle. 

They settled around the small table—Joel setting out bowls, Ellie already halfway through hers. The chili was hot and well-seasoned, with that unmistakable comfort-food weight to it. Eira hadn’t realized how hungry she was until the first spoonful hit her tongue. 

For a few minutes, they ate in quiet. The kind of quiet that wasn’t awkward, just... full. Spoons clinking, soft exhale of steam, boots shifting beneath the table. 

Then Ellie broke it.

“So,” she said, spoon in hand, glancing between them as she reached for a second helping, “is this like... gonna be a regular thing?”

Joel didn’t look up. “Ellie.”

“What?” she said, completely unfazed. “Just asking. You’re making dinner, she’s bringing coffee—kinda looks like a setup.”

Eira blinked, nearly choking on her bite. “It’s not like that.”

Ellie smirked. “Didn’t say it was. Just saying—most people in this town barely nod at each other. This is suspiciously cozy.”

Joel sighed into his bowl. “Ellie, eat your damn chili.”

“I am,” she said, grinning. “Just with a side of commentary.”

Eira couldn’t help it—a quiet laugh slipped out, more honest than she meant it to be. Joel shot her a glance, almost amused despite himself. 

Ellie caught it and raised an eyebrow. “See? Suspicious.” 

Joel gave her a long, tired look. “Finish. Your. Dinner.” 

“Fine,” Ellie said, grinning now. “But if you two start riding off into the sunset tomorrow, I want full credit for noticing first.” 

Eira shook her head, spoon hovering above her bowl. “Not happening.” 

Ellie shrugged. “Hey, never say never. Weird things happen outside the gates.” 

And with that, the table fell back into silence—comfortable this time. Eira focused on her food, ignoring the heat rising faintly in her cheeks, and the way Joel very deliberately didn’t look at her. 

Suspicious, indeed. 

The rest of the meal passed in silence, but it wasn’t exactly peaceful. 

Eira ate slowly, eyes mostly on her bowl, though her attention drifted more than once to the quiet exchange happening just out of her line of sight. Joel didn’t say much, but every now and then, she caught him throwing a sideways glance at Ellie—short, deliberate, laced with quiet warning. 

And each time, Ellie met it with smug defiance. She didn’t even try to hide the grin curling at her mouth, like she was enjoying every second of this more than the chili. 

Eira kept her head down and bit back a smile. 

When the last spoon scraped the bottom of Ellie’s bowl, she leaned back in her chair with a satisfied sigh, like she’d just witnessed the final act of a play only she had tickets to. 

“Well,” she said, stretching her arms behind her head, “this was fun.” 

Joel didn’t respond. 

Ellie’s grin widened as she made no move to leave. 

Eira stood and began stacking bowls, offering a quiet “Thanks” in Joel’s direction. He gave her a nod, but his eyes were still on Ellie, who remained comfortably draped across her chair like she had nowhere else to be. 

Finally, Joel set down his napkin and leaned back with a groan that said he’d reached the end of his patience. 

“All right,” he said. “Go on. Upstairs. Out. Anywhere but here.” 

Ellie blinked, all wide-eyed innocence. “What, you kicking me out of my own house?” 

Joel didn’t answer. Just looked at her. 

Ellie held the stare for a beat, then sighed dramatically and pushed to her feet. “Fine. But I want my credit and my chili leftovers marked.” 

She turned to Eira with an exaggeratedly formal nod. “Good luck tomorrow. Try not to let him talk your ear off.” 

Then she padded off down the hall, muttering something about “old men and secrets” under her breath as she went. 

Joel shook his head, murmuring something that sounded suspiciously like “teenagers.” 

And just like that, it was quiet again. Just the two of them, the faint clink of dishes in Eira’s hands, and the sound of the wind brushing the windows. 

Eira gave a small, nervous chuckle. “Yeah, right,” she muttered, shaking her head slightly as she watched the hallway Ellie had disappeared down. The echo of her smirk still lingered. 

She helped clear the dishes, quiet beside Joel at the sink. 

“She’s… something,” she said eventually. 

Joel made a low sound that was almost a laugh. “That’s one word for her.” 

“I’ve never really been around teenagers before,” Eira said, after a beat. 

Joel looked over at her, eyebrow raised. 

“Not even when I was one,” she added, giving him a half-smile. “I was four when the outbreak hit. After that... it was just me and my family, out on a farm in the middle of nowhere. I didn’t go to school, didn’t play with other kids. Just chores and survival and trying not to lose what little we had.” 

Joel nodded slowly, his hands still busy with the dishes. “That’ll do it.” 

“I guess I missed the whole part where you learn how to talk to people your own age. Or any age.” She gave a faint, self-deprecating laugh. “Ellie’s like… sharp. Fast. Like she knows who she is.” 

Joel smirked, drying off a spoon. “She puts it on thick, but yeah. That’s her way.” 

Eira winced, already regretting it. “I guess I know how to talk to old people, though,” she said, trying for light. Then quickly added, “Not that you’re… you know. Old.” 

Joel raised an eyebrow, arms still crossed. “Uh-huh.” 

Eira held up her hands in mock surrender. “Just—older. Not old. Mature.” 

Joel snorted. “That’s worse.” 

She laughed, more freely this time. “I’m digging a hole, huh?” 

“Don’t worry,” he said dryly, walking over to her pack. “You can bring a shovel tomorrow. Put it to good use.” 

She nodded toward her pack near the door. “You still want to check my gear?” 

Joel gave a short nod. “Yeah. Let’s see if you’re actually ready for the outside.” 

Eira stepped toward the bag, the air between them still carrying something quiet. 

Joel knelt beside the table and unzipped the pack, his hands moving with slow, practiced efficiency. Eira stood nearby, arms loosely crossed, trying not to fidget. 

He didn’t say anything at first—just sorted through each item in silence: knife, food, first aid, canteen. 

Then he paused. 

“You didn’t pack any matches,” he said without looking up. 

Eira blinked. “I—thought I had some in there.” 

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Well. You don’t.” 

He reached into one of his own drawers, pulled out a battered metal case, and tossed it onto the table. “Take mine. And next time, double check. Cold’s not the kind of thing you wanna gamble with.” 

Eira nodded, a little quieter than before. “Right.” 

Joel zipped the pack closed again, slower this time. 

“You’ve got the basics,” he said. “But if this were more than a short ride, you’d want extra socks, better light, rope. Hell, even a damn whistle wouldn’t hurt.” 

Eira gave a faint huff. “You always this encouraging?” 

Joel’s mouth twitched. “Only when I think someone’s worth bringing back.” 

Chapter Text

Eira looked up at Joel. He wasn’t looking at her when he said it—his focus stayed on the pack, cinching straps, checking seams like the task needed his full attention. Maybe it did. Or maybe that was just how he said things he didn’t want to look someone in the eye for.

Only when I think someone’s worth bringing back.

Did he say that to everyone? To new people? To people passing through?

She doubted it.

Eira gave a crooked smile, trying to meet the moment with a little deflection. “Sure. Trigger-happy orphan. Sounds like someone worth bringing back.”

Joel glanced up, one brow raised. “Hell, that describes half the folks I’ve met on the road.”

Eira let out a short, dry laugh. “Comforting.”

He zipped the last flap shut and handed the bag back to her. “Just follow my lead. You’ll do fine.”

That pulled her eyes to him. His voice was steady, low—no warmth in it, not really—but the weight behind it felt like something she could hold onto, if things went sideways.

She nodded once and took her bag. “Alright.”

Joel reached for his coat by the door but didn’t put it on. “Be here at first light. We move while the roads are still frozen.”

“I’ll be ready.”

He opened the door for her, letting the cold slip in around them.

“And Eira—this ain’t a patrol. Eyes up. No showing off.”

She tilted her head. “You saying I look like the showing-off type?”

“I’m saying I don’t have the patience to drag anyone home.”

A flicker of a grin tugged at her mouth. “You won’t have to.”

Joel gave her a nod, hiding a slight smirk. Then the door closed behind her, leaving him in the hush of the house.

The porch light buzzed faintly outside. Her breath curled into the night.

Tomorrow was real.

The door clicked shut behind Eira, but Joel didn’t move right away. He stood there, hand on the knob, until the cold draft had fully faded. Then, with a quiet sigh, he turned and made for the kitchen.

The chili was still sitting on the stove, the scent of it softer now. He lifted the pot, set the lid in place, and tucked it into the fridge.

Done.

He turned to leave—then spotted the old coffee grinder tucked beside the fruit bowl Ellie kept empty out of spite or laziness, he hadn’t decided which. Joel stepped closer, picked it up.

“Needs a cleanin’,” he muttered.

The little wooden drawer slid out easy, and sure enough, old grounds clung to the corners. He rinsed it in the sink, left it upside down to dry, and grabbed the rest of the grinder.

Upstairs, the house creaked softly under his boots. He stepped into his room, closed the door behind him, and sat at the desk. No light yet—just the last of the dusk bleeding through the window.

He pulled out an old toothbrush, the handle sawed short for this exact task. The grinder came apart in his hands like it always did. Burrs. Hopper. Crank. He laid each piece out neatly.

The pouch of beans Eve had given him sat near the edge of the desk, tied in waxed cloth. Good stuff. He’d grind some in the morning—enough for him, and maybe… enough for two.

Seemed polite.

He worked quietly, bristles scraping soft over metal. The room was still.

Then, low and gruff, like the thought had surprised him by escaping:

“Someone worth bringin’ back... Why the hell’d I say that?”

Joel shook his head. No point in dwelling. Morning was close.

He kept brushing out the grinder, letting the motion occupy him.

Then—knock knock knock. Three short taps.

He didn’t answer.

The door creaked open anyway.

Ellie stepped in, hoodie sleeves bunched up to her elbows, hands stuffed in the pocket.

Joel didn’t glance up. “Y’know, it’s considered polite to wait for an answer when you knock.”

Ellie shrugged like that rule had never once applied to her. “Yeah, well. Figured you’d just grunt at me anyway.”

He gave her a dry look. “Still. One day I ain’t gonna be dressed.”

Ellie wrinkled her nose. “Okay, ew. Never say that again.”

She wandered closer, eyeing the spread-out grinder pieces. “You actually clean that thing?”

Joel raised an eyebrow. “You think it cleans itself?”

“I figured you’d use it till it broke, then complain about it”

Joel snorted. “That’s your move.”

“Fair.”

She leaned against the desk, hip resting on the edge. “So. You’re really going out with her tomorrow?”

Joel didn’t look up. “I’m takin’ her riding. I ain’t goin’ out with her.”

Ellie tapped the leg of the desk with her foot, a little smile creeping in. “She seems alright.”

Joel’s hands paused in their motion. “Yeah?”

Ellie shrugged. “I mean, for someone who makes fun of your age and trades you your favorite thing in the world.”

She tilted her head, frowning in mock offense. “That amount of coffee could’ve bought me, like… five new comics.”

Joel didn’t look up. “Good thing we’re not tradin’ it for comics then.”

Then his eyes narrowed, just a little. “You were eavesdroppin’?”

Ellie lifted her hands innocently. “I just walked up the stairs… very slowly. And maybe sat on the top step for a while. Not technically eavesdropping.”

Joel gave her a long, flat look. “You sat there and listened?”

“I didn’t not listen. I simply used my ears as intended.”

Joel shook his head. “And I’m just accidentally cleanin’ a coffee grinder at midnight.”

“Exactly. See? Accidents all around.”

He waved her off, tired. “Go to bed, smartass.”

She paused at the door, one foot already out, and looked back.

“So,” she said. “Be honest for once—what do you think of her?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just kept brushing out the last of the burrs, slow and deliberate.

Then finally, with a shrug:

“She’s tryin’. Like the rest of us.”

Ellie narrowed her eyes. “That’s not what I asked.”

Joel sighed, looked up. “I don’t think anything. She seems like a nice girl, I suppose.”

Ellie grinned and mimicked his tone with a dramatic southern drawl. “‘She seems like a nice girl, I suppose.’”

Joel gave her a flat look. “You finished?”

“Almost. What do you think I think of her?”

Joel raised an eyebrow. “Alright then. What do you think?”

Ellie leaned against the doorframe. “Well, today was the first time I ever really talked to her. But… she seems alright.”

She grinned.

“And she’s pretty.”

Joel coughed—too suddenly, too hard.

Ellie beamed. “Uh-huh. Thought so.”

He muttered something about teenagers and turned back to the grinder, brushing faster than before.

Eira sat at her kitchen table, the soft creak of the old wood beneath her elbows the only sound in the room. In front of her, spread out across the scarred surface, were the gaps in her pack—at least the ones Joel had pointed out. A cracked flashlight with dying batteries. A fraying length of rope, not long enough to be useful. No extra socks. No whistle. No matches anymore, either—those were tucked safely into her bag now, thanks to Joel.

She sighed and leaned back in her chair, eyeing the clutter like it might solve itself if she stared long enough.

She’d have to trade for some of this. Maybe with Seth. Maybe check the surplus shed in the morning, see if anything useful had been logged. And socks? If she asked Gail nicely, she might have a spare pair that hadn’t been mended to death. It wasn’t ideal, but it was something.

Her hand drifted to the empty canteen sitting beside the rest—still not filled. She made a mental note. Again.

Then her thoughts slipped back—quiet and uninvited—to Joel’s kitchen, barely an hour ago.

The smell of chili still clung faintly to her scarf. Ellie’s grin. The sound of Joel’s voice saying “Only when I think someone’s worth bringing back.”

She wasn’t sure why that sentence had hit the way it did. He hadn’t meant it as a compliment, not really. It was just Joel being Joel—gruff, dry, with that sense of humor that came at you sideways.

Still, something about it had caught in her ribs. Like a spark that hadn’t quite burned out.

She picked up the flashlight, turned it over in her hands. It rattled a little—loose somewhere inside. Not great.

“Trigger-happy orphan,” she muttered under her breath with a crooked smile, repeating what she’d said to him in the moment. “Sounds like someone worth bringing back.”

He hadn’t laughed, but he hadn’t disagreed either.

Her fingers stilled on the flashlight.

She hadn’t felt like someone worth anything in a long time.

Tomorrow would be cold. Probably quiet. She’d have time to think out there.

Too much time, probably.

There wasn’t time to get the rest before morning. Not the rope, not the extra socks, not even fresh batteries. Maybe next time—if there was a next time.

Eira zipped the pack shut and let her hands rest on top of it. The kitchen was quiet around her, the kind of quiet that felt thin, like it could tear if she breathed too loud.

Still. She had what she had.

And maybe—not everything needed to be perfect to be worth something.

Chapter Text

Eira stood at the small sink in her kitchen, brushing her teeth with one hand while the other gripped the counter edge. The water ran cold, biting at her fingers as she rinsed the brush and set it aside.

The cabin was still. The kind of quiet that felt like it was listening.

She moved through the narrow hallway in wool socks, shoulders hunched slightly against the chill. The light from the woodstove didn’t reach this far. Her hand reached automatically for the wall as she passed her mother’s room.

But she stopped.

The door was shut. Same as she’d left it.

She stared at it for a moment, toothbrush still in her hand. Just standing there. Not close enough to touch the doorknob, but not walking away either.

She thought of earlier—of standing in that room, the linen closet, the bottles. Her mother’s stash. Her undoing.

She didn’t feel finished in there. Not really.

Maybe she’d never be.

She missed her. That part was simple. Sharp. And it came fast now, in moments like this. In the stillness. When the rest of the day couldn’t crowd it out.

She missed her father too.

Not in the same way—his absence settled different. But she missed the scent of him: woodsmoke and old soap and the faint, stubborn trace of rubbing alcohol that never quite went away. She missed the way her mother would roll her eyes, overly theatrical, every time he started another long-winded explanation about soil acidity or fence repair or how something was “technically” supposed to be done.

Her dad always had to be correct.

Not always right.

Eira let out a breath and leaned her forehead against the doorframe for just a moment.

Then she pulled away.

The toothbrush went back in the cup. She didn’t bother changing into sleep clothes—just pulled the blanket up over herself fully dressed, the way she had on colder nights when it wasn’t worth the effort.

Tomorrow would come early.

And she needed the sleep more than she needed the comfort.

But still, even with her eyes closed, the hallway light still out, her thoughts drifted back to the door.

And the people who used to wait behind it.

Sleep found her eventually.

And when it did, it gave her something soft—for a while.

She was home. The old home. The farm, just as it used to be. The kitchen was full of golden evening light, the windows fogged slightly from the warmth of the stove. Her parents sat at the table, familiar and alive. Her mother poured tea into mismatched cups while her father gestured animatedly with his fork, halfway through a story Eira had heard a dozen times but didn’t mind hearing again.

Even Spike was there, their old mutt curled beneath the table with his chin resting on her foot, tail thumping lazily against the wood. Eira leaned down and scratched behind his ear the way he liked. He huffed contentedly. Begged without shame.

The table was mostly set. Warm bread. Roasted carrots. A pot of something that smelled like onions and herbs. They were waiting for the main dish.

Her mother turned toward the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “It’s just about ready!”

Her father smiled at Eira. “Hope you’re hungry.”

She was. Famished, actually. But not the desperate kind. The comforting kind, like she was meant to be fed here, meant to sit in this chair again. Everything felt warm, gentle. Like it might last.

Her parents started talking again—something about crop yield, fencing repairs. Then her dad veered off into a ramble about weather patterns and soil composition. Her mother teased him, fake-rolling her eyes and nudging him with her elbow.

Eira smiled. She hadn’t realized how much she missed that—how much she’d forgotten.

Then her dad said something strange.

“We could try again this fall. Maybe even make it as far as Pinedale.”

Her mother nodded, too casually. “We could. If we get lucky with fuel. If the frost holds.”

Pinedale.

Something about that word pulled at Eira, like a thread unraveling in her chest. She didn’t know why—only that it didn’t belong in the old kitchen, in this old memory.

Then came the clatter of silverware. Her mother stepped back in, carrying a large, silver-domed platter.

“Dinner’s served,” she said.

Her father stood. “Finally,” he said, grinning as he reached for the lid.

He lifted it.

Beneath it was a rabbit. Roasted, golden-brown. Crisped skin, tucked legs.

Its head was still intact.

White fur remained at the cheeks. Eyes wide. Unblinking.

It looked like her. Like the white rabbit she’d dreamed of before. The one that had run, and run, and run.

Silence fell.

Her father’s grin faded. Her mother’s hands stilled.

They both stared at her.

Not the rabbit. Her.

And as the seconds dragged on, their skin began to dull. A pale gray crept across their faces, draining color from their lips, from their hands. Their eyes clouded, hollow and still.

Eira’s breath hitched. “Mom?”

But her mother didn’t move.

“Dad?”

Nothing.

Then came the voice. Soft. Familiar. Too familiar.

“Why did you do it?”

It sounded like her father. And her mother. Both at once.

But their mouths weren’t moving.

Eira looked toward the sound.

The rabbit stared up at her.

Its mouth moved.

“You killed us.”

Eira shook her head. “No—no, I didn’t—”

“You left us behind,” it said in her mother’s voice now. “You ran.”

“You always run,” said her father’s.

The rabbit’s eyes gleamed, wet and glassy.

Spike whimpered under the table, but he wouldn’t move. He was frozen. Like everything else.

“You let us die,” the rabbit whispered. “You closed the door and left us in the dark.”

“No,” Eira breathed, her voice too small, too late.

The room was wrong now. The warmth gone. The windows black. The table rotten beneath her hands.

The smell of dinner had turned, gone bitter, sour.

“Why did you do it?” the rabbit asked again, soft and steady.

“Why?”

Eira jolted awake, heart pounding.

The darkness around her was thick, silent. Sweat clung to the back of her neck, soaking into the scarf she’d forgotten to take off before bed. Her chest rose and fell too fast, like she’d run miles without moving an inch.

She swallowed hard. Her mouth tasted wrong. Sour. Like smoke and guilt.

The dream—no, the memory—no, something else entirely—still clung to her, sticky and cold. The rabbit. Her parents. The way they’d stared at her without blinking. Like they’d seen something in her she didn’t want to believe.

She sat up, slow, and wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, trying to settle the nausea curling low in her stomach. It didn’t help.

Her eyes found the clock on the wall.

4:56 a.m.

Not quite morning. Not quite night. That in-between hour where nothing good ever seems to happen.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and sat there a moment, letting her hands rest on her knees. Her palms were damp.

The house was quiet. Too quiet.

She thought of the kitchen. The scarf still faintly holding the scent of chili. Joel’s voice. The pack waiting by the door.

She rose from the bed. I need water.

On light feet, she padded down the hall. She caught herself sneaking—moving soft, careful.

Out of habit.

There was no one left to wake in this house. Not anymore.

Not that her mother had been a light sleeper. Not in the last month, at least. Those final weeks had been a haze—bottles, breath sharp with booze, the slow drift of someone already halfway gone.

Eira’s eyes flicked toward her mother’s door.

Still closed.

Of course it was.

She didn’t stop. Just passed by, letting her fingers brush the cool wall instead.

The kitchen was dark but familiar. The kind of dark that didn’t need a light switch.

She filled a glass at the tap and drank slowly, letting the cold settle the nausea still low in her stomach.

Eira decided to get dressed.

She pulled on a pair of tights first, then layered the worn jeans Maria had given her over top. They were a little big in the waist, but warm and tough—good for riding. Next came a white long-sleeved shirt, the cotton soft and familiar, followed by the thick knitted cardigan she kept folded at the foot of the bed. It had weight to it, real warmth. Her jacket stayed on the hook by the door, for now.

She tugged on a long pair of socks, then slid her feet into her boots—lacing them slowly, like each motion gave her something to focus on.

When she stepped out onto the porch, the morning air bit at her cheeks. The sun was only just starting to rise, casting the barest light across the treetops. Her breath curled in the cold, each exhale ghosting out into the stillness.

No birds.

No voices.

Just the faint whisper of wind threading through the branches.

It was almost peaceful.

She went back inside, the door creaking softly shut behind her.

The house felt colder than before—like stepping into a memory that hadn’t quite faded yet.

Eira walked to the stove and set the kettle on, the clink of metal against metal sounding too loud in the stillness. She turned the knob and watched the flame catch beneath it, flickering blue and gold.

Some warm tea might help. Wake her up a little. Settle her stomach.

She didn’t have much to choose from—tea wasn’t exactly easy to come by—but this month she’d been lucky. Maria had come by with a small tin of bergamot tea. Eira thought it used to be called Earl Grey, back when things still had brand names and bright labels.

Now it was just a paper-wrapped bundle that smelled like citrus and dust and something oddly comforting.

She pulled out a pinch, dropped it into the old strainer, and set it into her mug. The water hadn’t even started to boil yet, but the ritual helped. Gave her something to do with her hands.

Outside, the sky was beginning to shift—gray into pale blue.

She leaned against the counter, arms crossed loosely, and waited for the kettle to sing.

As she waited for the tea to steep, Eira found herself thinking about the day ahead.

She was excited—really, she was—but the feeling tangled with something else. Not dread exactly. Just that sharp edge of fear that comes when you care about something going right.

She was glad she’d asked Joel. The decision had planted something in her—something to look forward to. Something that pulled her forward instead of holding her back.

But it wasn’t predictable. Joel wasn’t predictable.

She didn’t really know what kind of man he was. Not yet. But he didn’t scare her.

No, he didn’t feel like... other men she had met.

The thought crept in with an old, cold weight, and she shook her head, trying to fling it away like water from her skin.

Enough.

Just then, the kettle let out a soft whistle. She poured the water into the mug, letting it fill over the bergamot leaves. The steam curled up, fragrant and sharp. She cupped it in both hands, careful, and stepped back outside.

The porch greeted her with that same hush. Pale morning light stretched thin across the trees, and her breath clouded in front of her, fading fast into the breeze.

She sat down on the small makeshift bench by the door and held the tea close.

Eira sat with her eyes closed, the warm weight of the tea mug steady in her hands. The steam curled up, soft and slow, carrying the faint scent of bergamot into the cold morning air. She breathed in deeply. For a moment, it felt like everything had paused—the world, the fear, the day ahead.

Boots crunched softly on the gravel.

She opened her eyes just as Joel stepped through the gate, hands tucked in his coat pockets, eyes scanning the quiet.

He stopped at the edge of the porch and gave her a look—not sharp, not unkind. Just… noticing.

“Didn’t know I was interruptin’ your morning ritual,” he said, voice low, rough from sleep.

His gaze lingered a second too long before he turned it away, glancing toward the treeline like he’d suddenly remembered to be somewhere else.

“Hope that tea’s strong,” he added. “We’re losin’ light already.”

Eira huffed a quiet breath, almost a laugh, and lifted the mug to her lips.

“It’s strong enough.”

Joel nodded once, stepped up onto the porch, and gave the door a brief glance.

“Ready?”

She looked down at her bag just inside, then back at him.

“Ready enough.”

Chapter Text

The stable yard was still shadowed with morning chill, the frost on the fence rails catching what little light had started to spill across the sky. The horses were quiet, shifting in their stalls. The steady, familiar scent of hay and earth filling the space like something old and worn-in.

Eira led Bran out by the reins, his hooves clicking softly against the packed dirt. She’d worked quickly, Joel’s words from earlier—"We’re losin’ light already"—still echoing in her head. The saddle was cinched snug, the blanket beneath it laid smooth, and she’d run her hands over each strap and buckle of the bridle more from nerves than need. The motions kept her focused. Kept her from thinking too much.

Her pack sat on the bench beside the stall, already buckled and ready. She slung it over the back of the saddle, securing it with a length of cord Joel had given her the night before. A little frayed, but it held firm. She checked the knots twice. Then a third time.

Bran shifted under the weight, but didn’t fuss. He was used to her, and she took comfort in that. At least one of them knew what they were doing.

Footsteps crunched behind her.

She didn’t have to turn to know it was Joel.

"Yall ready?" he asked, voice low and even, like the hour hadn’t touched him.

Eira gave a nod. "He’s ready. Just finishing up."

Joel gave Bran a once-over, running a hand along the saddle and down the side to check the cinch. Then he gave the pack a quick tug.

"Tied that down like it’s gonna outrun you," he said.

"Figured I might as well give myself one less thing to worry about."

He grunted—approval, maybe—and moved toward his own horse.

And what a horse it was—a broad-chested gelding with a dark coat and steady gait. It was clear this was his horse, not one borrowed from the community stables. The way he moved with it, spoke low near its ear, adjusted the reins with barely a glance—they mirrored each other in small ways, reading the shift of weight, the pull of breath.

Eira smoothed a hand down Bran’s neck, listening to Joel ready his gear a few yards away. The yard was quiet, save for the occasional snort or stamp from the stalls.

Joel swung up into the saddle with a practiced ease, the kind of movement that said he’d done it a thousand times. The horse didn’t flinch, didn’t shuffle—just stood, ready.

They were really doing this.

She drew in a slow breath, tasted frost and dust and something like anticipation. The last time she passed through the gate beyond the yard, she hadn’t seen it at all—too feverish, too wrung out by grief. She’d barely known where she was.

Now, she was here. Only present this time.

She swung up into the saddle, hands steady, boots finding the stirrups without hesitation.

Joel led the way, his horse setting an easy but purposeful pace as they made their way toward the main gate. The gravel crunched beneath the hooves, and Eira followed close behind, Bran calm and responsive beneath her. The closer they got, the more her heart seemed to pick up—half nerves, half the simple rush of going somewhere unknown.

A tall man stood near the gate controls, bundled against the cold with a rifle slung over his back. Joel slowed as they approached, giving the man a nod.

“Malcolm,” he greeted.

“Joel,” the man replied, eyes flicking to Eira with a note of surprise. “This your second?”

Joel glanced over his shoulder. “She is.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow, not hiding his skepticism. He looked Eira up and down, not hostile, but weighing her like someone used to making hard calls. Eira met his gaze, not flinching.

Malcolm gave a small grunt, then shrugged and lifted a gloved hand. With a short wave, he signaled the others on the wall.

The gates opened with a groan, and beyond them, the open valley spread wide.

Eira watched as the world beyond unfolded in front of her—flat fields stretching out like a painting, the frost glittering silver in the early light.

They rode forward at a slow pace, hooves crunching softly over the frozen path. Eira felt the cold air rush against her cheeks, her breath coming visible in faint curls.

She took it in. All of it.

The last time she’d passed through these gates, she hadn’t seen any of this—her mind blurred with fever, her heart gutted by loss. But now, she saw it all. The shimmer of frost on the grass. The hush in the trees. The horizon stretched open like a quiet promise.

She looked over at Joel.

He didn’t say anything, just met her eyes briefly.

Like he knew what she was thinking.

Eira hesitated, then gave a slight tug on Bran’s reins to slow him more. “Can I?” she asked, eyes on the valley ahead. “It’s been a long time since Bran here got to stretch his legs. And this valley’s just too good an opportunity.”

Joel’s eyes stayed on the road further back, but his mouth twitched like he was holding something back.

“Don’t let him throw you,” he said finally.

Eira grinned.

She leaned forward, close to Bran’s ear. “Let's go, boy,” she whispered, and gave a soft, playful “Yip.”

Bran responded instantly—like he’d been waiting for the cue.

And then they were off.

Wind whipped against her face, cold and alive, her hair streaming out behind her. The saddle bounced beneath her in rhythm with Bran’s stride, and she moved with him instinctively, like muscle memory taking over. She could feel his power in every push of his legs, the way his breaths matched the rhythm of the gallop. This was what she’d missed.

This.

The wild movement. The freedom. The bond between them that didn’t need words.

She closed her eyes for half a second and just felt it. The wind, the speed, the thudding of hooves beneath her. Bran was more than a horse—he was the last piece of the life she’d lost, and in moments like this, he felt like home.

They kept riding until they reached the edge of a river, the wide water glittering under the rising sun. Bran slowed naturally, hooves skimming the frost-laced grass.

Eira sat back in the saddle, breathing hard, cheeks flushed from the cold. She looked out over the water. The river sparkled, calm and slow-moving, catching the light like glass.

It was beautiful. Quiet.

Joel caught up with her not long after, his horse working a little harder to match Bran’s pace. His brows were lifted, and there was a half-smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Damn,” he said, adjusting the reins with one hand. “Didn’t think you had a racehorse of all things.”

Eira gave a crooked smile, running a gloved hand along Bran’s damp neck. “He’s got some speed in him. Especially when I let him think it’s his idea.”

Joel let out a small grunt—part impressed, part amused. His gaze lingered on Bran a second longer, then shifted back to her.

“He gets restless when he’s been penned up too long,” she said. “So do I.”

Joel let out a low sound of agreement, not quite a laugh. “Well. Guess I know not to challenge you next time.”

Eira grinned sideways at him. “You’d lose.”

Joel grunted. “Probably.”

They let the horses walk now, trotting down toward the riverbank. The water moved slow and glassy, glittering with sun and sky, winding its way beneath the towering pines and frosted ridgelines. Snow still clung to the shaded edges of the trail, but where the sun reached, it had started to melt, leaving dark earth and patches of brittle grass.

Jackson was tucked far behind them now, just a soft blur between trees and hills. The valley here felt untouched—still, vast, humming with cold.

Joel nudged his horse forward again, leading them south toward the lower ridgeline, where the trail curved along the water.

And just like that, their real journey began.

They followed the river for a while, the trail narrowing and curving with the bends in the water. Pines rose on either side, tall and silent, their tips dusted with frost. In the distance, the mountains loomed, blue and silver under the rising sun, jagged like old teeth against the sky.

Eira glanced at them, her breath fogging slightly as she exhaled. The sight of the peaks stirred something quiet in her—a memory that didn’t fully form, just softened the space behind her ribs.

Joel rode ahead, not far, his horse keeping a steady pace.

“Hell of a view out here,” he said after a while, voice low. “People used to pay to hike out here and stare at trees.”

Eira smiled faintly. “Guess we’re rich now.”

Joel huffed. “Guess we are.”

The trail opened up again, dipping low through a patch of flattened grass and snowmelt. A few birds flitted through the higher branches—dark shapes against the pale sky.

“You always been good with horses?” Joel asked.

“Pretty much. Bran was born on our farm—he’s about eight now. Practically raised him myself.”

Joel nodded, his eyes forward. “It shows.”

They rode in silence a while longer, hooves soft against thawing ground. The river stayed close, glinting like a ribbon of glass.

Joel spoke again, tone casual. “Ever been out this far before?”

“Not since…” She paused. “Not really. We didn’t stray much. Kept to our land. Safer that way.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I get that.”

He didn’t push further. Just rode, letting the quiet come back around them. It wasn’t awkward. Just… spacious. Like the land itself had room for quiet.

They passed a fallen log, half-covered in snow, and a flash of movement caught Eira’s eye—a fox, maybe, darting between the trees. Gone in an instant.

She pointed ahead. “Trail splits soon, doesn’t it?”

Joel nodded. “We’ll take the west fork. Easier on the horses.”

And they did, the path narrowing again, deeper into the woods.

Still early. Still cold. But it was shaping up to be a good ride.

Eira nudged Bran into a quicker pace until she pulled up beside Joel. She rode quietly for a few strides, the rhythmic thud of hooves filling the space between them. Then she glanced sideways at him, her voice casual but curious.

“So…” she started, careful with the edge of the question. “You and Ellie. Been together long?”

Joel didn’t look over. Just kept his gaze forward as they followed the trail along a slight incline, the trees thinning to reveal the valley in patches of frost and gold.

“Couple years,” he said eventually. “Give or take.”

Eira nodded slowly. “She yours?”

That got the slightest pause in his shoulders.

“Not by blood,” Joel said. “But… close enough.”

Eira didn’t press. The answer felt final in a way that didn’t shut her out—it just said, That’s all I’ve got for now.

“Must’ve been hard,” she said after a beat. “Raising a kid after everything. Even harder raising one who’s not yours.”

Joel gave a soft grunt that might’ve been agreement. “Wasn’t easy. But Ellie’s… she’s got her own way of survivin’. Didn’t need much raisin’, far as that goes.”

“She’s sharp,” Eira offered.

Joel huffed. “Sharp, loud, stubborn as hell.”

Eira smiled at that. “Sounds like you like her.”

Joel didn’t answer right away. Then, low: “She’s family.”

The words were simple. But they felt like they meant something more than he said.

Eira glanced over at Joel again after he answered, his eyes fixed ahead on the trail.

She nodded slowly, then looked out at the tree line. “Family,” she echoed under her breath.

The word stuck in her chest a little.

Did she still have one?

Her mother was gone. Her father too. What remained were memories, and Bran. Maybe that counted. Maybe not.

She didn’t say anything more for a stretch. Just listened to the steady rhythm of hooves, the wind tugging gently at her scarf.

Then, quieter: “I used to think family meant people who were always there. Who’d never leave.”

A pause.

“And now... I don't know”

Joel didn’t answer right away.

The silence stretched, filled only by the quiet clop of hooves and the whisper of wind through the trees. His eyes stayed forward, unreadable.

Eira’s fingers tightened slightly around the reins.

“Sorry,” she said quickly. “That was probably—too much. I didn’t mean to—”

“Nah,” Joel said, cutting her off gently, his voice low. “It’s fine.”

He shifted in the saddle, glanced her way.

“I think family’s what you make it nowadays. Blood or not. People who stick with you, look out for you.”

A beat passed.

“You’ll have your family again.”

Eira blinked, surprised by the certainty in his tone. It wasn’t hopeful exactly—just solid. Like he wasn’t offering comfort. Just fact.

She looked away, blinking against the breeze.

“…Thanks,” she said, barely above the wind.

And they rode on.

Chapter Text

They rode beneath a canopy of fir and pine, the morning sun slanting in through the branches. The trail had narrowed to a soft winding path, damp with old snowmelt and littered with pineneedles. Birdsong echoed lightly through the woods, and for a while, the only other sounds were the creak of leather and the rhythm of hooves.

Eira let her hand brush the edge of a low-hanging branch they passed under it. Bran moved steady beneath her, his ears twitching at every squirrel or branch snap, but he didn’t spook. He trusted the trail—and Joel ahead of them.

The quiet was nice. Comfortable, even.

Then Joel slowed his horse and raised a hand. “Let’s take a break.”

He nodded toward a small clearing just off the trail—nothing fancy, just a patch of mossy ground between two trees with a half-fallen log like a bench.

Eira followed him off the trail and dismounted, stretching her legs as Bran shook his mane out.

Joel slid down from his saddle with the ease of someone who'd done it a thousand times. He unhooked something from his saddlebag—a small, battered thermos—and gave it a little shake as he looked over at her.

“Brought coffee,” he said.

Eira raised her brows, surprised. “For both of us?”

Joel gave a half-shrug. “Seemed polite.”

Joel unscrewed the on the thermos and poured the dark aromatic liquid into the lid. He offered it to Eira.

She took it, then paused, catching the smell. Familiar. Sharp. Bright.

“This is the coffee,” she said, looking up. “The one I gave you.”

Joel shrugged, not looking at her. “Figured I’d bring it full circle.”

A smile tugged at her mouth. “So I’m drinking my own bribe now?”

“Pretty much,” he said, deadpan. “Consider it symbolic.”

She sipped and exhaled through her nose. “Still worth it.”

Joel leaned back against the log, adjusting his coat collar. Then, after a pause:

“So… did you bring the MP3?”

Eira blinked like she’d forgotten it existed. “Oh. Yeah—almost forgot.” She reached into her coat pocket and pulled it out—scuffed, old, wrapped in worn black tape around the battery cover.

Joel nodded toward it. “That the one I gave you the batteries for?”

“Yup. Batteries, thermos, trail time…” She shot him a sideways look. “You’re practically my sponsor.”

Joel smirked. “Guess I better hear what all that coffee bought me.”

Eira rolled her eyes, then untangled the earbuds. “Alright, fair. But left side’s quieter—don’t blame me, blame the apocalypse.”

She passed him one earbud. He took it, surprisingly gentle, and they sat like that, shoulder to shoulder, the old cord stretched between them like a fragile lifeline.

She hit play.

The first song was slow—an older ballad with layered guitars and soft vocals. Eira didn’t say what it was, and Joel didn’t ask. They just listened. The sound was tinny, imperfect, but full. It filled the space between their bodies in a way words hadn’t yet.

“This playlist was mostly my dad,” Eira said eventually. “He had a thing for classic rock. But we found CDs sometimes—traded for ‘em. We’d add whatever worked.”

Joel nodded slightly, eyes on the trees.

“He said it was important. Keeping the old things close. Especially the good ones.”

The second song rolled in—something with heavier drums, a gravel-throated voice that leaned more rock than ballad. Joel’s foot tapped once against the dirt before he caught himself.

Eira grinned faintly. “Didn’t take you for a head-nodder.”

“I got layers,” Joel muttered.

They let the third song play through without talking. Something acoustic again—hints of sorrow wrapped in warmth. Simple chords, aching lyrics. Eira didn’t say a word, but her hand drifted to her coat pocket and stayed there.

Joel glanced at her. “You got a favorite?”

She hesitated. “Yeah.”

He waited, but she didn’t offer it. Just gave a small shake of her head, then added under her breath, “It’s kind of cheesy.”

Joel raised an eyebrow. “Now I definitely wanna know.”

She smirked. “Too bad.”

The fourth song started up—some bright, jagged guitar that didn’t quite match the others. Joel’s earbud slipped loose with the motion of his head as he adjusted his coat.

Eira took that as her cue. She reached out, paused the track, and gently reeled the earbuds back in.

“Coffee and music,” she said. “Hell of a break.”

Joel nodded. “It's a good day for it.”

The breeze rustled high in the trees, but down here on the trail, they fell into an easy rhythm—passing a thermos lid back and forth, exchanging dry observations about the weather, Bran’s stubborn streak, and Joel’s suspiciously good egg sandwich.

“So…” Eira said, nudging his boot with hers. “What did you do before the world fell to shit?”

Joel blinked, caught off guard more by the nudge than the question. He looked at her—longer than necessary, maybe—then said, “I was a contractor.”

“Oh.” She blinked. “Like, building stuff?”

He nodded and straightened his back. “Houses. Small-scale development. Renovations. Kitchens mostly.”

Eira tilted her head. “Huh. You don’t really seem like a kitchen-renovation kind of guy.”

Joel arched a brow. “You seen a man swear at tile grout, you’ve seen a man’s soul.”

Eira let out a quiet laugh, the sound surprising even herself. “Let me know when you’ll be laying tile next,” she said, nudging her boot against a rock. “I’ll make sure I’m somewhere else.”

Joel smirked. “Probably for the best," then leaned forward to poke at a twig near his boot.

“What do you think of Jackson so far?”

Eira took a sip from the thermos, giving herself a moment.

“It’s… strange,” she said finally. “Not bad strange. Just… like it’s too good to be real sometimes.”

Joel glanced at her now, one brow raised.

“I mean, the fences, the power, the food lines. People laughing in the street.” She paused. “It’s like this leftover piece of the world that forgot to fall apart.”

He grunted. “Some days it feels like that.”

Eira twisted the thermos cap in her hands. “Guess I keep waiting for it to crack open. Like I’ll turn a corner and it’ll all be smoke and ash again.”

Joel didn’t answer right away. The trees around them whispered softly, leaves shifting like they had somewhere to be.

Then he said, “That feeling doesn’t go away, not really. But it gets quieter.”

She passed the thermos back, fingers brushing the metal like it might burn her.

“It’s just…” she started, then stopped. Her eyes drifted out to the trees again.

Joel waited. He didn’t push.

Eira sighed. “I don’t go into town much. I only go in so I can see Bran.”

Joel raised an eyebrow. “Why’s that?”

She hesitated, then said, “Because they look at me like I’m made of glass. Like I’ll shatter if they say the wrong thing.”

Joel didn’t speak, didn’t shift. Just listened.

“I hate it,” she said, sharper now. “The way they glance away too quick. The silence when I walk in.” Her jaw clenched. “I know what it is. It’s pity.”

A pause. She picked at a loose thread on her sleeve.

“And pity feels worse than being invisible. Because it means they’ve already decided who you are. What you’ve been through. And they look at you like it’s all you’ll ever be.”

Joel’s voice came low. “What do they think they see?”

Eira didn’t meet his eyes. “A girl who lost everything. Who’s damaged.”

She shifted slightly, shoulder twitching under the fabric of her coat, her hand unconsciously brushing over it—over the hidden scar.

Joel noticed, but didn’t comment.

“They don’t see me,” Eira finished.

Joel took a sip, then leaned back against the log behind them, voice quieter now.

“You miss your folks?”

Joel draged his hand over his face, instantly regretting the question, "Sorry that was a dumb question, ignore it."

Eira didn’t answer right away.

When she did, her voice was calm. Honest.

“Yeah. Every day.”

She didn’t look at him when she said it. Just let the wind stir her scarf and watched the trees shift like slow dancers.

Eira sat with the thermos in her lap, fingers wrapped loosely around it as if the warmth might help shape her next thought.

She shifted where she sat on the mossy log, thumb grazing the seam of her glove. She hesitated, then glanced at Joel.

“How’d you do it?”

Joel looked over, brow drawing faintly.

“Do what?”

“Find your family. After all of it. After everything.”

The question hung in the air, not sharp, not accusing—just quiet and real.

Joel didn’t answer right away. He looked past her, toward the trees, watching the way the breeze tugged at the pines.

“I didn’t, at first.” His voice was low, even.

“I lost people too,” Joel said finally. “Important people. In terrible ways.”

He paused, eyes on the trees. “So I know what it’s like. Carryin’ someone with you, even after they’re gone.”

Then he looked over at her, the faintest hint of a smile pulling at one corner of his mouth.

“Took me a while. Nothin’ clean about it. But I figured out… sometimes you don’t find family. You make it. One piece at a time.”

Eira watched him quietly.

Joel nodded a little, like to himself.

“That’s how I know you’ll get there. Might not look the way you pictured. But it’ll be yours.”

She looked down at her hands, the steam from the thermos just barely curling in the air.

Her voice came soft “I don’t know if I can.”

Joel let out a breath, not harsh.“You don’t gotta know right now.”

Joel leaned back against the log, his voice trailing off as the breeze stirred through the clearing again.

“You just keep goin’. Ain’t a straight line, is all I’m sayin’.”

Eira didn’t answer.

She could still hear the rabbit’s voice from her dream—Why did you do it?—and the way her parents had stared at her like they saw something awful under her skin. It had been just a dream, but it clung to her like damp wool.

Everything was pressing in again. The kindness in Joel’s voice. The heat from the thermos in her hands. The way he said you’ll get there like it was already true.

It felt too close. Too much. Definitly too soon.

She stood up suddenly, brushing her hands on her jeans.

“I—uh, I gotta take a leak,” she said, not looking at him.

Joel didn’t stop her. Just gave a small nod, like he understood.

“Don’t wander too far. Ain’t exactly a gas station out here.”

Eira gave a faint grunt of acknowledgment and stepped off into the trees, the branches swallowing her up with a whisper of pine.

Eira pushed through the brush, branches snagging softly at her cardigan as she moved deeper into the trees. She didn’t really know how far she went—just far enough that Joel wouldn’t hear her breath hitching, wouldn’t see the way her jaw clenched like it might keep everything inside.

She found a quiet spot behind a thick tangle of fir and bramble, where the ground dipped a little and the moss was soft under her boots. It was shaded there, tucked far enough from the trail that the clearing felt like a world of its own.

She didn’t sit. Didn’t crouch like she was supposed to.

She just stood there, arms wrapped around herself, trying to get her chest to loosen.

It wasn’t like Joel had said anything wrong. It wasn’t even the talk. It was her. The words. Family. The way he said you just gotta keep goin’ like it was simple. Like some days, she didn’t wake up with her ribs wrapped in guilt and a voice in her head whispering that she’d let them die.

The rabbit again. Why did you do it?

She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head like she could dislodge it from her skull.

Wind rustled through the trees. Far off, Bran snorted—restless maybe, sensing her absence. Joel didn’t call after her. He wouldn’t.

She was grateful for that.

Eira crouched finally, elbows on her knees, head bowed.

“Just a damn dream,” she whispered to herself.

But it didn’t feel like one. Not really.

Not when she could still smell the roasted rabbit in her nose and hear her father’s voice behind its teeth.

Eira stayed crouched, half-hidden behind the wall of brambles, her arms still wrapped around her legs, forehead resting on her knees. Her thoughts looped with no clear edge—just fragments of her dream, Joel’s words, and that one awful question echoing over and over.

She barely noticed the shift in the air.

A strange hush, heavier than before. Like the woods themselves were holding their breath.

It wasn’t until she heard the soft crunch of something massive moving through the underbrush that her head jerked up—and froze.

About ten feet in front of her, standing broad and heavy in the filtered morning light, was a bison. A bull. Huge and still, steam curling from its nostrils in slow, steady bursts. Its dark eyes stared straight at her, unmoving.

Her breath caught in her throat.

For a second—just one—she was struck dumb by it. By the sheer size. The bulk. The way the sun caught on its coarse fur. A prehistoric, silent beast from a different time, materialized from the trees like a spirit. Beautiful.

And then the fear hit.

She was too close.

Way too close.

Her heart slammed into her ribs. She almost stood up on instinct—but a voice behind her cut through everything, low and sharp like the crack of a branch underfoot.

“Do. Not. Make. Any. Sudden. Movements.”

Joel.

Her body locked in place. She didn’t dare look behind her, but his voice came again, quiet as the wind.

“Stay still. Keep your eyes down.”

The bison snorted once. The sound was deep—felt more than heard. Its hooves shifted slightly, crushing moss and pine needles underfoot. One heavy step forward.

Eira’s pulse thundered in her ears.

She didn’t run.

Didn’t blink.

Just tried to breathe like she wasn’t there at all.

Behind her, Joel’s voice again—calmer now, controlled.

“Start backing away. Slow. Diagonal. Don’t look at it. Don’t rush.”

Eira didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

The bison was massive—close enough that she could see the steam rising from its nose, the flecks of mud on its fur, the dull shine of its eyes. It stared through her like it knew something she didn’t.

Every part of her body screamed to run, but her legs wouldn’t listen. Her breath sat tight in her throat, like a knot that wouldn’t come undone.

Then—his hands.

Warm, solid.

She felt them settle gently on her shoulders from behind. Not sudden. Not forceful. Just steady. Real.

He didn’t speak again. Just let his hands guide her—pulling her up, slow as the wind in the trees, keeping his pressure light but sure.

She felt herself rising—he was lifting her to her feet, guiding her like she was something breakable.

He moved them together, step by step, until her back hit the rough bark of a tree.

Then Joel shifted, stepping in—closer, protective—until he stood nearly over her, one hand braced against the tree beside her head, the other hovering near his side, ready. His body blocked hers completely from the bison’s line of sight.

He didn’t speak again. Just watched, muscles coiled like wire, breath quiet and even.

Eira could feel everything.

The weight of him. The tension in his arm brushing hers. The heat from his coat where it almost, almost pressed into her.

She clenched her fists at her sides, trying not to focus on how his chest rose and fell just inches from her own.

It had been so long since a man had been this close.

Not to take—just to protect.

She closed her eyes for a second, trying to ground herself. But the tree behind her, the weight of Joel in front of her, the sound of the bison’s breath—it was all too real.

Memories threatened the edge of her thoughts. The scar on her shoulder felt like it burned beneath her coat.

She felt a single tear escape her left eye.

Joel noticed—it was clear in the way his gaze held just a second longer, in the slight shift of his stance.

But he didn’t say anything.

He just stayed there, standing between her and the bison, body still tense, eyes tracking the animal as it moved off through the brush. Protective. Steady.

Eira didn’t move to wipe the tear. The breeze did it for her.

When the moment passed, and the danger had gone with it, Joel stepped back a few inches, giving her space without comment.

“We’ll wait another minute,” he said quietly, as if nothing had happened.

But something had.

Eira stood frozen—not from fear now, but from something colder. A ripple of unease stirred in her chest, curling sharp behind her ribs. Like she'd let something slip. Like too much had been seen.

His voice had been calm. Kind. So had his hands. But that only made it worse.

The nearness. The protection. The silence after the danger.

It was too much.

Too much, too fast.

Her heart beat hard against her sternum, not from the bison now, but from something less clear. Something she couldn’t name. Whatever this was between them—this connection, this moment—it scared her more than the thousand-pound animal that had just walked off into the woods.

She didn’t know what Joel was to her. What she was to him.

And she wasn’t ready to find out.

So she did what she always did when things reached too deep.

She shut the door.

Eira stepped away from the tree, brushing off her coat like it could sweep the feeling from her skin. Her voice came a moment later, clipped and dry.

“Guess we should head back to the trail.”

And just like that, the wall went up.

Brick by brick.

She didn’t look at him again as she turned toward the clearing.

Chapter Text

The sun hung higher now, light filtering through the trees in long slants. Afternoon had crept in quiet while neither of them had said much. The hooves of their horses thudded dully against the soft trail, muffled by pine needles and damp earth.

Eira adjusted her grip on the reins, eyes fixed ahead.

“We should head back,” she said, a little too sharp. Then, after a beat: “I’ve had enough fresh air for one day.”

She tried for a dry smile, something joking—but it didn’t quite land. It curled brittle at the edges.

Joel didn’t call her on it. Just gave a small nod and turned his horse with a tug of the reins.

“Alright.”

They rode on in silence. The forest closed behind them, step by step.

Joel glanced over.

Something had shifted.

He’d felt it the second she came back from the woods—her posture tight, her voice smaller.

Had he said something wrong? Done something?

He hadn’t done anything but what anyone decent would. He’d seen the bison peeling off the ridge toward the trees. When Eira hadn’t come back, he’d gone looking.

Found her frozen in front of the bull, breath held, one wrong move away from being trampled.

He hadn’t thought. He’d just moved. Pulled her back. Shielded her.

Now she wouldn’t look at him.

Joel let out a slow breath. The reins creaked in his gloved hands.

He didn’t regret it. Would do it again. But something in her had shut down after, and he hated not knowing why.

Why did it matter?

They barely knew each other. A few conversations, a ride, some coffee. Nothing lasting. Not in a world like this.

And yet... it sat with him.

The way her laughter had drained out, the silence that settled between them. He couldn’t stop seeing the look on her face—right before she’d put the wall back up.

They crested a ridge. The valley opened below—familiar now. The place where they’d started.

Joel slowed his horse, falling into line with her.

He didn’t look at her at first. Just kept his voice low.

“You good?”

Eira didn’t glance his way. Adjusted her reins instead.

“Yeah,” she said lightly. Too lightly. “Guess I just got a little flustered back there.”

Joel waited.

“Bigass bison and all,” she added, with a laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Maybe I’m not as ready for the outside as I thought.”

She nudged Bran forward with her heel.

Joel didn’t press. Just kept pace beside her, quiet as the wind.

The walls of Jackson came into view—unchanged, solid.

They rode in silence. Not tense, exactly. Just... careful. Like something unspoken had taken up the space between them, and neither of them wanted to poke it.

Eira focused on Bran’s gait. The creak of the saddle. The ache in her legs. Anything but Joel’s voice echoing in her mind—You’ll get there.

Joel stole one last glance at her.

She didn’t meet it.

So he let it go.

The gates creaked open at their approach, mechanical and strange in the quiet. A pair of guards nodded as they passed. One waved them through.

Tommy stood just inside, arms crossed, squinting toward them. His smile was casual, but his eyes did their usual scan—counting heads, checking for wounds, reading the space between.

“Welcome back,” he said. “How’d it go?”

Eira didn’t slow. “Fine.” Not cold, not rude. Just clipped. Quick.

Tommy looked at Joel, but didn’t ask.

Joel dismounted with a grunt. “Ran smooth.”

Eira kept riding, headed for the stable. But after a few paces, she reined Bran in and turned halfway in the saddle.

Her eyes met Joel’s.

“Thanks for today,” she said. Not soft—but steady. Like she meant it. Like she didn’t know what else to say.

Then she turned back and rode off, quick and deliberate.

Joel stood still a moment longer, watching her disappear behind the stable.

Then he let out a breath and turned toward Tommy.

“She okay?” Tommy asked.

Joel shook his head. “Hell if I know.”

And that was all there was.

That night, she lay awake, coat still on, blanket pulled up like armor. One earbud was in, the other hanging loose. The MP3 was warm in her hand.

She wasn’t really listening.

The playlist kept going, but her thumb hovered over the skip button. She made it through maybe four songs—maybe five—before the next one started. That acoustic intro she knew by heart.

She hit skip before the first line even hit.

Too close.

The next song played. She didn’t register the words. Just sat there, letting it run while her thoughts spun in circles. God, she felt stupid.

Joel hadn’t owed her anything. He could’ve handed her the batteries and left it at that. But he didn’t. He brought the thermos. He asked about the music. He sat there and listened like it meant something.

And what did she do?

Walked into the woods. Came back cold. Shut him out like he’d crossed some line—when all he did was something kind. Brave, even.

That was the worst part. He didn’t do anything wrong.

And still, she pulled away.

Her forehead dropped to her knees. She knew what it was. The way he stepped in front of that bison—it wasn’t just instinct. It felt like something else. Familiar. The way her dad used to do. That quiet kind of safety you don’t question till it’s gone.

And it had scared the hell out of her.

Because for a second, it felt safe. And safe was dangerous.

She’d lived this before. One wrong step. One mistake. One too-late realization—and someone else paid the price.

Gail could say all she wanted—it’s not your fault, it’s not on you—but guilt doesn’t care about logic. It just sticks. Heavy.

And maybe that’s why the walls had gone up so fast she hadn’t even realized she was doing it. Because getting close meant risk. Letting someone see her meant maybe they’d stay. And if they stayed, they could die. And if they died…

She wouldn’t survive it again.

So she kept her distance. Made jokes. Kept the scar under her coat and her feelings even deeper.

It was easier that way.

Eira glanced down at the MP3. The playlist was still running. Some track she didn’t remember the name of played softly in her ear.

Her eyes burned.

It started slow. A breath caught.

Then the tears came—quiet and steady, slipping down her cheeks like crack in a dam.

She didn’t make a sound.

Just sat there, blanket around her shoulders, the MP3 still humming something old and gentle in her ear. A song her father probably loved. One he might’ve played while cleaning tools or making dinner.

She cried for him. For her mother. For everything they lost. For everything she’d carried since. All the guilt, all the questions, all the goddamn dreams that kept her frozen in place.

But she also cried for the future.

For the thing Joel had talked about with such quiet certainty—you’ll get there. A family, chosen or otherwise. A life that felt like hers.

She didn’t believe it.

Not really.

Not when for once someone got close, her first instinct was to run. To push them away. To lock the door and throw the key into the woods.

It wasn’t just about losing people.

It was the fear that she’d be the reason it happened again.

So she stayed distant. Sharpened her edges. Made sure no one leaned in far enough to see the soft parts still trying to heal.

Joel had seen one of those parts today.

And it terrified her.

That night, lying awake with her coat still on and the earbuds tucked in but silent, she made a decision.

She wouldn’t let that kind of fear creep in again.

Not like today.

Not when someone stepped close and it felt like the world might split in two.

It wasn’t just about her. It was about them, too—anyone who might try to care. Anyone who might stand in front of her like Joel had. Because what if she froze again? What if she moved wrong? What if she was the reason someone didn’t walk away next time?

She couldn’t risk it.

She wouldn’t.

No more letting people close. No more deep, meaningful anything. Surface was safer. Distance was control.

If Joel saw her wall go up today, that was good. Let him keep his distance.

It wasn’t bitterness. It wasn’t even anger.

It was protection.

For him. For herself.

For anyone really.

Maybe because she was jinxed.

So she decided.

No more almosts. No more what-ifs. No more hope that could turn into grief.

Just the ride. Just the moment. Just enough to keep moving.

Nothing more.

Chapter Text

Mornings came grey and quiet. Eira woke to the way the cabin walls groaned as frost lifted from the roof. She moved through it all like clockwork. Brush teeth. Boil water. Tie boots.

Routine was everything.

She kept things polite. A nod if someone greeted her. Maybe a quiet hi.
She’d successfully avoided getting into any real conversations with Joel.
If they crossed paths, it was always the same—quick glance, small wave. Nothing more.

Not because she didn’t want to.
Because she couldn’t let herself.

Each morning for the past two weeks, she went to the stables.

Bran was always there, waiting—steady, patient in the quiet way only horses seemed to know. She brought him carrots, or an apple if she’d managed to find one. Brushed him slow, careful with the tangles, the way Thea used to.

It gave her something to hold onto.
Something that didn’t ask for more than she could give.

It kept her grounded.

She still rode, too. Around the edges of town. Never beyond the gates. Just enough to feel the wind, let the silence stretch.

People noticed. They always noticed.

Back at the cabin, she started sorting.

What could be traded? What might she need later? What could she let go of?

She dug through drawers and boxes—scarves, broken scissors, a melted flashlight. A cracked mug. Junk, mostly.

But she kept going.

Because next time a trader rolled through, she’d be ready. No more asking Joel. No more needing anyone.

That’s when she found the antibiotics.

Buried under gauze and an old sewing kit. Still sealed. Gold, in a place like this. They could buy her food, warmth, favors.

And under them, a brush.

Black handle. Two bristles missing. Her mother’s.

She stared at it a long time.

Then she set the antibiotics aside.

The brush stayed in her hand.

It was stupid. Worthless to anyone else. But letting it go felt wrong.

Not yet.

Later that night, when the fire burned low and her nerves itched under her skin, she sat down in front of a cracked mirror.

The scissors were dull. She didn’t care.

She tied her hair in sections and started cutting.

The curls fell, heavy in her lap. By the end, her neck was bare. Her head lighter.

She didn’t cry.

She didn’t smile.

She picked up the brush again. Held it.

Then put it in the trade pile.

And walked away.

She didn’t leave the cabin the next day. Or the one after.

She sat wrapped in the same sweater, hair now blunt and uneven, stopping at her jaw. The cut curls still sat in a small nest by the wall.

On the second day, someone knocked.

She didn’t move.

Then: “Eira?” Gail’s voice, soft but steady. “Just checking in.”

The door creaked open. Eira hadn’t locked it.

Gail stepped inside, eyes flicking across the room.

“I see you’ve been making changes,” she said, nodding toward the haircut.

Eira shrugged. “Needed less maintenance.”

Gail sat nearby. Let the silence stretch before asking, “How’d the ride go?”

“It was fine.”

“Joel said there was a bison.”

Eira’s voice sharpened. “It wasn’t that close.”

“That’s not what I—”

“I said it was fine.”

Gail paused. “Joel said you were quiet after.”

Eira scoffed. “Joel worries too much.”

She kept her eyes down.

“You’ve been keeping to yourself,” Gail said.

“Isn’t that what everyone wants?”

“No.”

Eira didn’t respond.

Gail eventually stood. “You don’t have to talk yet,” Gail said softly, standing in the doorway. “Just know I’m here when you’re ready.”

She left without another word.

Eira exhaled hard. She needed to do something. Couldn’t write—those words felt lost. Couldn’t clean—she already had. Nothing left.

Maybe the yard.

She glanced outside. Dead leaves, pine needles, frost-bitten brush. A gravel path barely visible. She could clean that up.

Tools?

She shut down the thought of asking Joel before it finished forming.

Instead, she walked to the stables and borrowed what she needed—rake, clippers, a shovel, a bucket.

The yard was small—maybe fifteen meters by ten. A fence leaned at odd angles, bushes drooping tired at the edges. She dropped the tools by the porch.

Earbuds in. MP3 on.

The music hummed soft in her ears, barely loud enough to block out her thoughts.

She started raking—slow, methodical, focused. The cold bit at her fingers, but she didn’t care. The rhythm of metal on gravel, the music, her breath—it was enough. Her mind stayed quiet. Her hands kept moving.

She didn’t hear the gate open.

Didn’t notice the footsteps behind her.

Until a hand touched her shoulder.

She flinched hard, spun, nearly lost her balance—

Joel caught her.

“Don’t—” she snapped, yanking away from his grip. She tore the earbuds out. “What do you need?”

It came out sharper than she meant, but she didn’t take it back.

Joel took a step back, palms slightly raised. “Easy now,” he said, voice calm but thick with that slow Southern warmth. “Didn’t mean to scare the life outta you. I hollered, I swear.”

Eira narrowed her eyes, brushing dust off her hands. “Music,” she muttered, holding up one of the dangling earbuds.

He nodded, looking vaguely sheepish. “Ah. That explains it.” Then his mouth pulled into a faint smirk. “Saw someone out here workin’ like they were mad at the dirt. Didn’t recognize you. Thought it was a stranger gettin’ bold in your yard.”

Eira raised an eyebrow. Joel gestured toward her head.

“The hair,” he said simply. “Didn’t realize it was you at first.”

She blinked. Right. The haircut.

His eyes dropped to the MP3 player dangling from her coat pocket—half falling already. He reached out and grabbed it before she could react.

“Hey—” she tried to stop him, but he already had it.

The tape was peeling. A crack across the screen.

“This thing’s held together by a prayer,” he said, inspecting it.

“It works,” she muttered, trying to take it back.

“I could fix it,” he offered. “Won’t take long.”

She stared at him, unsettled.

“Have it back tomorrow.”

“Why?”

He looked at her, unreadable. Then shrugged. “Figured you’d want it working.”

She stepped forward, hand out. “Joel—just give it back. It’s fine.”

But he was already walking away.

“I’ll bring it back tomorrow,” he said without looking back.

She stood frozen. Bucket half-full. Rake hanging from one hand. Cold creeping in through her sleeves.

Her plan had been simple: stay distant. No more help. No more soft spots.

So why did he walk into her space like it didn’t matter?

They weren’t close.

Why was he doing this?

She didn’t call after him.

Didn’t stop him.

She just stood there and watched him go, pulse loud in her ears, silence returning like a weight.

She didn’t want his help.

Didn’t trust it.

And yet—

There it was.

That night, she stewed.

The absence of the MP3 player was louder than she expected.
She hadn’t realized how much she relied on that little piece of plastic—how its low hum of music kept her thoughts at bay, gave her mind something to hold on to.

Now the silence crawled in like a draft under the door.

It wasn’t even late. Barely seven.

She sat on the edge of her bed, arms wrapped around her knees, staring at nothing.

What day was it?

She hadn’t thought about that in… days? Weeks?

She tried to trace it back—meals, mornings, the rhythm of her boots on the floor.
Tuesday?
No, probably not.
Maybe Thursday.
Could be.

She frowned, frustrated with herself. With the quiet. With him.
Why couldn’t he just leave it? Let things stay simple? Let her be invisible like she’d planned?

Instead, here she was, stuck in her head, with nothing to drown it out.

Her fingers twitched, reaching for a thing that wasn’t there.
Habit.

That night, the cabin felt smaller than usual.

Eira had tried to lie down, but sleep never came. Her eyes kept tracing the cracks in the ceiling, her thoughts crawling up with them. She couldn't even pace—too cold outside, and inside held nothing but creaking floorboards and the empty ache of silence.

Restless, she got up.

Not toward the stove. Not toward the door.

She found herself outside her mother’s old room, hand on the frame like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to go in.

Eira stepped inside.

The closet creaked when she opened it. She pushed aside a stack of folded towels, then an old flannel sheet—and there, at the back, behind everything, was the stash.

Three bottles. Dark glass. No labels.

Her mother’s moonshine. Brewed in silence during the hard seasons. Given to her mother by Seth, back when guilt poured easier than words. Hidden away like it was something sacred or shameful—maybe both.

The last time any of it had been drunk was the night her mother killed herself.

That bottle was still there. Half-full. Cork shoved back in like it was holding something in. Or keeping something out.

Eira didn’t touch that one.

She took the other two.

The glass was cold in her hands. Heavier than she remembered.

With the two bottles in hand, Eira walked with goal-oriented steps toward the Tipsy Bison.

The wind bit at her cheeks, and the streets were mostly empty, but she didn’t hesitate. Her boots scuffed across frozen gravel, the moonshine cold against her palms. She didn’t bother wrapping them. Let people see if they wanted. Let them wonder.

The bar’s windows glowed faint and amber in the fading light, condensation fogging at the corners. The muffled sound of conversation and the clink of glasses carried through the door before she pushed it open.

Warmth hit her like a wall.

Heads turned. Not many. Just a few regulars hunched over drinks. One of them blinked like he almost didn’t recognize her. She kept walking. Straight to the bar.

Seth looked up, startled for just a second—then something softened in his face.

Eira didn’t give him time to speak.

She set the bottles down.

Seth’s eyes landed on them, and something shifted in his face. A subtle change, like a door cracking open in a long-locked house. He didn’t speak right away. His hand came to rest gently on the glass, thumb tracing the curve of one bottle.

“I remember these,” he said softly.

Eira didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

The bottles felt heavier on the counter than they had in her hands. She knew she was trading more than just liquor; she was trading away memories she could barely face—but holding onto them hurt worse.

He looked at her then—really looked. The guilt in his eyes wasn’t fresh, but it hadn’t dulled either. “I gave these to her. Back when I thought maybe drinkin' would be the lesser hurt.”

“She drank ‘til she didn’t feel anything at all,” Eira said, voice flat.

Seth winced. Just barely. Then nodded once, slow. “Yeah.”

He stood there with it a moment longer, the weight of those nights thick in the space between them.

“You trading?” he asked finally, voice more careful now.

Eira nodded once. “Something that plays music. Doesn’t have to be fancy. Just needs to work.”

Seth let out a short breath. “You’re not asking for much—just a miracle.”

Eira didn’t smile.

He scratched at the stubble on his jaw. “Don’t have anything like that. Not anymore. Radios break. Batteries get swallowed up quick.”

A pause. Then: “But…”

He stepped into the back without another word. When he returned, he carried a battered black case, edges held together with worn tape and patches of old cloth. He placed it gently on the bar and unclasped it.

Inside lay a scuffed acoustic guitar. One string snapped, another rusted, a crack near the bridge sealed clumsily with resin. But it was still whole.

“She needs work,” he said. “Had her since before all this. Used to play sometimes, before... y’know. Back when things were still just bad, not biblical.”

Eira stared at it.

“Still holds a tune, mostly,” Seth added. “Tried her out a couple weeks ago. Thought maybe I’d sell her, but…”

He trailed off.

Eira didn’t ask him to finish the thought.

“She’s yours,” he said finally. “Call it even.”

Eira’s gaze flicked to the bottles.

“For both?”

He looked at them again. “One’s payment. Other’s penance.”

She didn’t answer. Just reached out, fingers skimming the strings. They hummed under her touch—rough, a little out of tune, but alive.

She touched the strings again, remembering her father’s fingers sliding gently over the frets, the sound of comfort filling their old farmhouse. 

She closed the case without another word.

And left the bottles on the counter.

But before she turned to go, she hesitated—just a beat. Her fingers tapped the lid of the case.

“I remember my dad playing for my mom,” she said quietly, not quite looking at Seth. “She’d hum along, even when she didn’t know the tune.”

Her voice dropped further. “Thought maybe I could do that too. One day.”

Seth blinked, the moment catching him off guard.

Eira shifted her weight. “You don’t happen to have any… I don’t know. Books or something? On how to play? I know what each string’s called, but that’s about it.”

Seth scratched the back of his neck, mouth pulling into a thoughtful line. “Might still have an old chord chart or two. Think they’re buried in the drawer back there with the bar menus and old tokens.”

He turned to go look, already rummaging.

“I’ll take anything,” Eira added, voice softer now.

Seth disappeared into the back, muttering something about “menus and junk drawers.” Eira waited, hands still resting on the guitar case, the weight of it strangely comforting.

After a minute or two, he returned—dusty booklet in one hand, slim and weathered, the corners curled like it had been flipped through one too many times.

“Not much,” he said, placing it on the bar. “Chords, strumming patterns, a few old songs.” He paused, then added with a small smile, “Some real bad ones too.”

Before she could reach for it, he slid a glass across the counter. The liquid inside caught the lamplight—warm and gold.

Eira raised an eyebrow.

Seth leaned on the bar, his voice low. “Don’t suppose it’s inappropriate to raise a glass to her. Thea.”

Eira stared at the drink.

For a moment, she didn’t know what she was supposed to feel. Resentment? Grief? Gratitude? None of it quite fit. But something about the gesture—quiet, not sentimental—felt honest.

She took the glass.

“I haven’t had anything in months,” she muttered.

Seth lifted his own. “Then maybe it’s time.”

Their glasses clinked softly. No toast, no speech. Just a quiet sip.

The burn was slow. Familiar.

Eira swallowed, then slid the guitar book toward herself.

“I’ll give it a try,” she said.

Seth nodded once, voice steady. “That’s all it takes.”

Chapter Text

By the time Eira made it home, the sky had dulled to that strange blue that only came before real darkness. Her breath fogged in front of her as she unlocked the cabin door, guitar case under one arm, chord book stuffed under the other. The wood creaked like it always did, but somehow it felt different—like it knew something had changed.

She set the case down on the table. Stared at it a moment before unclasping the latches and lifting the lid.

It looked even rougher in the cabin light—one snapped string hanging loose like a tendon, dust settled into the fretboard, the finish scratched and dulled. But still, it was intact. Old, maybe forgotten for a long time, but not dead.

Eira ran her fingers over the strings—light, hesitant.

It made sound. That was something.

She didn’t really know how to tune it, not properly. But she’d seen her father do it enough times, sitting on the porch with the sun on his back and that familiar squint of focus in his brow. He’d twist a peg, pluck a string, press the fifth fret and hum under his breath until the notes lined up.

She remembered that much.

Eira sat down with the book beside her and turned the guitar in her lap. The wood was cold. The tuning pegs stiff. She didn’t have a pitch pipe or tuner. Just her ears.

Fine.

She plucked the low A string, then pressed down on the fifth fret to check the next one. The D string sounded wrong. She adjusted. Tried again. Better. Still not right, but… better.

She worked slowly, matching each string to the next, skipping over the broken low E. She could do without it. For now.

Her fingers fumbled. The tips of them already sore. But she didn’t stop.

She remembered how her dad’s fingers looked—callused, cracked, always stained with dirt or grease. He used to say playing guitar was like teaching your hands to talk.

She didn’t know what she wanted to say—not in words—but maybe her hands could figure it out first.

After a while, she strummed a rough, clumsy chord. It buzzed. A few notes rang clearer than others. It wasn’t good. But it wasn’t awful.

She sat back, resting the guitar against her thigh. A long breath escaped her lungs without her asking.

It didn’t fix anything. The silence in her cabin still stretched wide and empty.

But for a second, it didn’t feel quite as loud.

She glanced at the chord book, flipping through the smudged, dog-eared pages with careful fingers. Most of it was just diagrams—dots on lines, names she half-remembered. G major. A minor. D. Cadd9.

She tried a few shapes. Awkward at first. Her fingers didn’t want to cooperate. The calluses weren’t there yet, so every press stung a little. But she kept going.

Then—one shape. One sound.

It rang out, not perfect but close, and something clicked.

It sounded like the beginning of her favorite song. The one she’d played on repeat back when things were normal—before all the silence and loss. Just that one chord was enough to pull the melody back from wherever it had gone to hide.

Her heart thudded.

She reached for a notebook, tore a page from the back, and scribbled the chord down.

Then she went hunting for the next one.

Strum. Check. Adjust. Write.

She built the verse one piece at a time, like stacking stones across a river.

By the time she’d written the fourth chord, her hand was smudged with graphite, her fingertips red and tender—but the rhythm of the song was there. Barely. Like a ghost.

She strummed it again, slower this time, matching the notes to memory.

And then—softly, so quiet it almost wasn’t sound—she mumbled the lyrics.

Not singing. Not really.

Just letting the words fall out, one by one, like muscle memory. It sounded wrong without the thick E-string—like a house missing its foundation—but it still worked.

Mostly.

She paused, fingers hovering on the frets.

Saying the words out loud somehow felt harder than remembering them. Like if she got them wrong, the memory might vanish with them.

Then she took a breath.

“Sayin' I love you... is not the words I want to hear from you...”

Her voice cracked on the second line. She coughed, shook it off.

Tried again.

“It's not that I want you... not to say, but if you only knew...”

She paused again, letting the last note settle.

Her father used to sing this to her mother when he thought Eira was asleep. Back when the world felt small and safe, when love sounded simple and looked like him strumming gently by the fire, Thea humming along while folding laundry.

She swallowed.

Then she kept going.

“How easy it would be to show me how you feel... more than words...”

It was off-key in places. Hollow without the bass string. Her throat wavered on the high notes, her timing not quite right.

But it was hers. And it was real.

By the end of the chorus, her hands were trembling from the effort, from the memory. She let the final chord ring out, fading into the dark of the cabin.

Then she sat back, closed her eyes, and just breathed.

The room wasn’t quiet anymore.

It was filled with something else now.

She kept playing.

Not the whole song, not yet. Just the verse, then the chorus, again and again—mumbling through the lyrics, adjusting her fingers, tuning by instinct more than anything else.

She got caught in it. Hyperfocused. The rest of the cabin faded—just her and the sound. Her notebook sat open beside her, smudged pencil marks where she’d scribbled the chords.

It felt… good.

And strange.

To be remembering something nice. Something clean.

Her parents weren’t just grief. Not all the time. Sometimes they were music in the kitchen, her mother dancing barefoot on the tiles, her father humming under his breath as he tuned that same guitar. Sometimes they were warmth.

She could see it now—him sitting with the guitar resting against one knee, offering it to her with a crooked grin.

“Come on, Eira. I’ll show you the easy ones. You’ve got good hands for this.”

But she’d rolled her eyes. Said it was boring. That she didn’t want to learn.

She hadn’t even tried.

And now she was learning the hard way—chasing after the memory of his fingers instead of her own.

Her jaw clenched, more out of guilt than frustration. She should’ve let him teach her. She should’ve wanted to.

But that was a long time ago.

All she could do now was keep playing. Keep trying.

She leaned forward again, pressed her fingertips to the strings, and whispered the next line.

Not perfect. Not even close.

But enough.

Enough to make her feel, for the first time in a while, like maybe she hadn’t lost everything.

She played the verse and chorus one more time.

When she finally looked at the clock, it read 2:04 AM.

Her fingers throbbed. Red. Tender. Blisters tomorrow, no doubt.

Worth it.

She didn’t bother brushing her teeth.

Just set the guitar gently on the kitchen table—strings still faintly humming, like they didn’t want to stop either. She ran her thumb along the fretboard one last time. Then let it be.

She undressed in the quiet, dropped her sweater over the back of a chair, and crawled into bed without turning down the covers.

Her body ached. Her mind was soft and slow from the focus.

Sleep found her quickly.

And if she dreamed that night—of music, of ghosts, of voices she used to know—she didn’t remember them come morning.

Just the echo of a melody still caught in her head.

Joel POV

Joel hadn’t meant to go over there.

He told himself he was just walking. Maybe swing by the stables. Maybe check in with Tommy about that damn fence again. But the truth was—he’d seen her. A few times over the past couple weeks. Quiet at the stables, nodding if someone passed, barely speaking to anyone.

And definitely not to him.

Which was fair.

After what happened near the ridge—after the bison, after that look she gave him, like something inside her had cracked wide open and she hated him for seeing it—he hadn’t pushed. Didn’t even wave after the first few days. Just nodded. Kept moving. Let her be.

But seeing her out there in the yard?

At first, he didn’t recognize her.

The short hair threw him. Made her look different—not younger, not older. Just... sharper. Like the weight she carried had settled differently. He liked it, if he was being honest. More than he should.

The waves that used to hang long and heavy had curled in tighter now, close to her head. They caught the light when she moved, framing her face in a way that made her seem both softer and more solid. Like someone who’d finally planted her feet.

Still, he could’ve kept walking. Could’ve nodded and left it at that.

But then he saw the MP3 player. Barely hanging on—taped, cracked, beat to hell. Thing looked like it had survived a war and was running on willpower alone.

He figured he could fix it.

Didn’t really think about why.

Maybe it was just something to do. Or maybe—maybe he missed talking to her. Even if she hadn’t said more than two words to him in weeks. Not since the ridge. Not since she’d shut down again.

He got it. Fear did that. Grief too.

Didn’t make it easier to watch.

So he walked in.

And yeah, maybe he should’ve called out louder. Maybe he shouldn’t have touched her shoulder like a damn idiot. But when she flinched—spun around and nearly lost her footing—he caught her on instinct.

She shoved him off like he’d burned her.

The way she looked at him—confused, angry, scared—settled under his ribs like a bruise.

“What do you need?” she snapped, earbuds clenched in her hand.

He could’ve walked away. Should’ve. But the MP3 player was right there, slipping from her pocket. His hand moved without thinking. He plucked it out.

It was worse up close.

Duct tape peeling. Screen cracked. Battery panel barely holding.

“I could fix this,” he said. “Reinforce the housing. Clean the contacts. Tape it proper.”

“Why?”

He hadn’t planned an answer.

So he shrugged. “Figured you’d want it working.”

But it wasn’t just that.

He wanted to give her something. Something that didn’t ask for thanks or trust or any damn thing she wasn’t ready to give. Just a gesture. Small. Quiet. Fixable.

She looked like she might protest—but he turned before she could.

“I’ll bring it back tomorrow,” he called over his shoulder.

He didn’t look back.

Once her cabin disappeared behind him, he slowed. The MP3 sat in his coat pocket, small and warm from her body heat.

It surprised him, how much it meant—seeing someone still carry something like that. Old. Beat-up. Still loved. Sarah used to have a Walkman, back in Austin. Played that one Sheryl Crow CD until it wore out. Ellie, too—always humming, flipping through records like she was born with music in her blood.

Maybe that was why he noticed it. Why it stuck.

Back home, he sat at his desk, hunched over the player.

An hour passed before he was satisfied. He peeled back the duct tape, cleaned out the grime, braced the cracked panel with an old piece of flashlight casing. Not pretty, but it would hold.

Buttons clicked clean. Screen lit up. He plugged in his spare headphones, scrolled through the songs. Some Folk, alt rock, a little blues.

“Damn,” he muttered, lip tugging sideways. “Girl’s got half a recordshop in here.”

He kept scrolling. Names he didn’t recognize. Some he did.

A few songs, he realized, weren’t just for background noise. They meant something to her. He didn’t know how he knew, but he did.

He listened to one track all the way through before shutting it down. Let the stillness settle.

It was ready.

And it didn’t feel right to let it sit on his desk all night.

Her porch light was still visible from his. One window lit, then dark. The night hadn’t stretched too far.

He pocketed the player and headed down the road.

Should’ve waited, he told himself.

But still, his hand found the MP3 player and slipped it into his pocket.

He walked. Gravel crunching under his boots. Cool air biting the edge of his coat.

At her gate, he hesitated for half a second. Then he unlatched it and made his way up the path. Porch creaked beneath his weight—quiet, not enough to spook. He knocked.

Nothing.

He frowned. Knocked again, a little louder.

Still nothing.

He leaned a little, peered through the kitchen window.

Dark. No glow from the stove, no movement inside.

He straightened, confused.

Wasn’t like her to be out this time of night. Hell, wasn’t like her to be out at all unless it was early morning or stable-bound. She kept to herself, stayed in, kept the world at arm’s length.

And now she was just… gone?

He looked down at the MP3 in his hand. Thought about leaving it by the door, but his gut told him no. Too easy for someone to snag. Not that Jackson was crawling with thieves, but things still disappeared.

And this thing—patched and battered—was worth more to her than most people would guess.

He slipped it back into his coat pocket.

“Alright,” he muttered to himself. “Guess you get it in the morning.”

He lingered a moment longer, hand resting on the porch rail, eyes on the door like maybe she’d come walking out and say something like she used to—something short, a little annoyed. But nothing stirred.

So he turned, walked back down the path, closed the gate behind him.

Didn’t know where she’d gone. Didn’t know why.

But he felt it settle in his chest like a question that didn’t have an answer yet.

And for the first time in a while, he realized—he wanted to know.

Back home, he poured himself a whiskey and sat on the porch.

Ellie was in bed. The house behind him was dark except for the flicker of the porch light.

He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for.

But just before ten, he saw her—Eira—moving up her path, something large and bundled in her arms.

A guitar.

He blinked.

She went inside. A moment later, the kitchen lit up. She sat at the table, head bent, guitar resting in her lap. There was something else too—paper, maybe, a notebook. He couldn’t tell.

He didn’t reach for binoculars. Didn’t move.

Just watched.

The way she leaned in, adjusting the guitar, scribbling in the notebook like she was remembering something worth chasing—it hit him in a place he didn’t expect.

She looked… quiet. Not hollow, not lost. Just quiet.

And for once, it didn’t look like the quiet was winning.

Joel exhaled. Took a sip of whiskey. Let the burn sit there a while.

The MP3 was fixed. But maybe—tonight—she didn’t need it.

Maybe she had something else holding the silence at bay.

And that felt like enough.

Chapter Text

Eira woke with her fingers aching.

Not the kind of ache that made her wince. Just a dull throb, like something had been used for the first time in too long. Her hands felt stiff, warm in the joints. Earned.

She didn’t hate it.

For the first time in a long time, the discomfort meant something. Meant effort. Meant sound. A small reconnection—not to something she’d made, exactly, but to something her father had once loved. A thing he’d carried with ease and she’d always brushed off.

She wasn’t going to be good. Not like he was. But she’d tuned the thing, found the chords by ear. And that had to count for something.

Not that she’d admit that aloud. Or even fully to herself.

Still, she got up with a quiet sense of purpose, dressing in soft, worn sweats. Her muscles were heavy, but her limbs moved easier than they had in days.

She stepped into the hallway, feet quiet against the floorboards. Paused at the second door on the left.

Her mother’s room.

She hadn’t closed it the night before. The door stood slightly ajar, cracked open just enough to catch the morning light. Eira stood there, still, for a few seconds.

Then she turned away and padded into the kitchen.

The kettle went on first—muscle memory—and she rifled through the cupboards for something to eat. Her search turned up a stale lump of bread and half a stick of butter. Nothing else. Not even the dusty can of soup she kept in the back for emergencies.

She sighed through her nose. No more surprise drop-offs, then.

Tommy hadn’t come by. Neither had Maria or Gail. No fresh eggs, no soup jars. No folded note with a half-smile drawn at the bottom.

She guessed that meant she was on her own now.

That was fine.

It should be fine.

She needed to be more self-reliant anyway. Couldn't keep leaning on other people like some broken porch beam.

She made the sandwich—if it could be called that—and stared at it while the kettle started to whistle. The butter barely spread. The bread cracked near the crust. She poured the hot water over the bergamot tea and let the steam rise into her face.

Outside, the porch waited.

She picked up the mug, half-balanced the sad sandwich on the rim of the plate, and walked to the door.

Eira opened the door and froze.

Joel stood on the other side, fist raised halfway to knock. He blinked, then let his hand fall.

“…Mornin’,” he said, voice low and a little rough. He shifted his weight like he wasn’t sure whether to stand taller or take a step back.

Eira squinted at him through the soft light of morning. Her hair was still mussed from sleep, sweater half-zipped, tea steeping in the mug she held in one hand. The porch air bit a little colder than she expected.

He held up the MP3 player. “Brought this back.”

She glanced at it, then at him.

“Didn’t expect you first thing,” she said, voice unreadable.

“Yeah,” Joel said. “I know.”

She reached for the player, fingers brushing his when she took it. He didn’t flinch. Neither did she.

It was fixed. Patched carefully, the casing reinforced. Clean. It looked… cared for.

“Thanks,” she murmured, not quite looking at him.

He gave a short nod. “Figured you’d want it back sooner than later.”

She held it in both hands now, thumbs grazing the edge.

Silence stretched between them, but not quite awkward. Just… uncertain. Unpracticed.

Joel cleared his throat. Looked past her shoulder, like he was trying to give her space while still standing on her damn porch.

“I was gonna say,” he started, then stopped. Scratched at his beard. “Wasn’t sure if you’d still be—y’know. Around.”

Eira looked at him, really looked, and something shifted in her eyes. Not soft, but not hard either.

“I’m here,” she said.

“Good.”

He didn’t smile. Neither did she. But something eased a little in the line of his shoulders.

“Anyway,” he added. “Just wanted to make sure it got to you. I’ll get outta your way.”

A pause. She hated pauses like that. They asked for things without saying them.

She shifted her weight.

“…You want tea?” she asked.

Joel blinked. Hesitated.

She didn’t wait for him to answer. “Not a favor. Just… so I don’t owe you.”

That seemed to settle something in him. He gave a short nod.

“Alright.”

She watched him step inside, unsure why she’d asked, unsure why he’d said yes. But for now, it balanced the scales. That was enough.

Joel stepped into the kitchen.

Last time he’d been in here, the place had been… well. Cluttered was the polite word. Mess everywhere. Dishes stacked too long. Mud tracked from boots that had never been wiped. It’d looked like someone was surviving, not living.

Now, though—it was different.

Clean. Not spotless, but cared for. Countertops wiped down. Floor swept. Things put where they were meant to be. It still had that rough, patched-together look—a cabin that had once been nice, could be again if someone gave it the time. But someone had started giving it time. That was obvious.

Joel stepped further in, catching the scent of bergamot still curling through the air. He glanced around, then spotted it.

The guitar.

It sat on the table, like it belonged there.

He took it in without meaning to—one string missing, thick E gone slack and coiled around the peg. The neck was a little off too. Warped just slightly. Probably from how it’d been stored. He’d seen it before, in old pawn shop stock and busted tour gear—wood twisting slow under pressure or time.

His mouth opened—almost offered to fix it. A little tightening here, a shim in the right spot there, new strings, a careful reset of the truss rod. Nothing major. Just attention.

But he stopped himself.

She’d invited him in. On her terms. That meant something.

Didn’t want to mess it up by treating her like something else that needed fixing.

He nodded toward the table instead. “Looks like she’s seen better days.”

Eira set the mug down, grabbed another from the shelf. “It still plays,” she said.

He didn’t push. Just nodded again.

She poured the tea, silent. The only sound was the soft ceramic tap of the mugs and the wind rattling faintly at the windows.

Joel glanced toward her, caught a quick flicker of her expression. Neutral. Guarded, maybe. But not shut down.

He wrapped his hands around the mug when she slid it toward him. Didn’t even like tea. Never had. But it felt like something to hold onto.

Maybe he didn’t want the tea.

Maybe he just wanted to see that she was okay.

Or close enough.

They stood in silence for a while.

Probably just seconds, but it stretched between them like something delicate—neither of them willing to touch it first.

Joel cleared his throat.

“So,” he said, nodding toward the guitar on the kitchen table, “where’d you get it?”

Eira glanced at it. The case was still open, neck angled just a bit off from the edge. One string missing, the body scuffed but solid.

“I traded for it,” she said.

Joel raised an eyebrow. “With who?”

“Seth.”

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely. “What’d he want in return?”

There was a pause—short, but noticeable. Eira didn’t look at him when she answered.

“Couple bottles from my mom’s stash.”

Joel’s eyes flicked to her then. Not surprised, exactly. Just… registering it.

“She kept it in the back of her closet,” Eira added. “I didn’t want it sitting in the house anymore.”

Joel didn’t say anything right away.

Then: “Guess it’s a better use for it.”

Eira gave a faint nod. “That’s what I figured.”

Joel didn’t press.

He looked at the guitar again. Then at her.

And said, simply, “Worth it?”

Eira’s mouth twitched—just a flicker, barely there. “Yeah. I think so.”

She hesitated, then added, “He threw in a chord book too. And a drink.”

Joel’s brow creased. “A drink?”

“Yeah.” She glanced down at the table, voice going quieter. “Said to think of it as a salute. To my mom.”

Joel didn’t answer right away. His jaw shifted slightly—tight, thoughtful. He looked at the guitar again, then back at her.

“That sounds like Seth,” he said slowly, voice more neutral now. But something had cooled at the edges of it. Not angry. Just… wary.

Eira didn’t seem to notice—or maybe she did and chose not to respond. She lifted her tea, took a small sip.

Joel’s eyes lingered on her. “You alright with that?”

Eira looked at him, surprised. “What do you mean?”

Joel’s mouth opened slightly, like he was going to say more—but he hesitated. Scratched at the side of his neck, searching for the right angle.

“It’s just…” He shook his head, eyes dipping away for a second. “I don’t know. Seemed like maybe a drink wasn’t the right thing to offer. All things considered.”

Eira’s expression didn’t shift much—but something in her eyes flickered. A slow blink. Not defensive. Not angry. Just… still.

Joel cleared his throat and looked away again.

“Wasn’t my place to say that,” he added quickly. “Forget it.”

But she didn’t.

Not right away.

She looked at him, watching the lines at the corners of his eyes as he stared past her, suddenly too interested in the steam curling off his mug. For once, she wasn’t sure what to say back.

So she just nodded.

Small. Barely there.

And in that quiet, it didn’t feel like either of them had said too much.

Eira sat down at the table and took a sip of her tea.

She made a face.

“Forgot the honey,” she muttered, more to herself than to Joel.

He hovered for a second, unsure if he should follow her lead—then moved slowly, pulling out the other chair. The legs scraped softly against the floor as he sat down.

But before he could settle, Eira stood back up.

She crossed to one of the cupboards, rising onto her toes to reach the top shelf.

Joel looked away at first, politely—eyes landing on the guitar, then the steam rising from his untouched tea.

But movement tugged at his attention.

Her shirt lifted slightly as she reached—just enough to show a stretch of skin at the small of her back, pale against the soft hem of her sweats. The curve was brief, unintentional.

He looked.

Then looked away again.

But not before something in his chest shifted, quiet and unwelcome.

He cleared his throat, low. Focused his gaze on the table.

Eira didn’t seem to notice. She was still reaching.

“Think someone rearranged this shelf since I last looked,” she said, flat-toned, still stretched upward.

Joel rubbed the back of his neck. “Want a hand?”

“No,” she grunted, then finally snagged the honey jar with a soft clink of glass. “Got it.”

She came back to the table, set the jar down, and sat again without ceremony.

He watched her pour a spoonful into her mug, then stir it in slow circles.

Neither of them spoke for a beat.

Joel sat with his hands wrapped around the warm mug, searching his mind for something to say. Anything.

The words scattered like startled birds, never landing.

Finally, he tried.

“So…”

Eira glanced up, her brow raised. “You say so a lot.”

It slipped out before she could stop it—dry, almost playful. Her lips twitched like she might regret it immediately. What was she doing? That wasn’t the kind of thing she was supposed to say to him. Not anymore. Not like that.

Joel blinked, caught off guard. Then let out a soft chuckle. “Yeah. Heh. I suppose so.”

He let the moment settle, then nudged it forward.

“So… you think you’re up for another ride soon?”

Eira stilled. Her eyes flicked to him, surprised—then back to her tea.

“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “I thought it was a one-time thing. And I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Joel watched her carefully. “I thought you had a good time. Up until the bison.”

Her jaw shifted. She didn’t answer right away. Then she looked away, letting her gaze settle on a crack in the tabletop.

“I did,” she admitted. “But the bison reminded me I’m not there yet. Might never be.”

Joel leaned back slightly, but his voice stayed level. “No one’s ever really there. Not all the way.”

Eira shook her head. “You are. Tommy. Ellie. Everyone else.”

He didn’t argue. Not yet. Just let the quiet stretch a little.

Then, gently: “I think you're closer than you think.”

Eira didn’t respond. Not with words, anyway.

But her shoulders didn’t tighten. Her face didn’t close off.

And for a breath, it felt like something might stay open.

Then—

“You done with your tea yet?” she asked, voice flatter than before. Guarded. “I’ve got stuff to do.”

Joel blinked. The shift was quick, but not unfamiliar. He’d seen it before—in others, in himself. That flicker of openness sealed up like a drafty window.

He glanced down at his mug, mostly full, tea long gone cold.

“Yeah,” he said, standing slowly. “Yeah, I’m done.”

He set the cup in the sink with a gentle clink. Didn’t try to drag it out.

“Thanks for the tea.”

Eira gave a small nod, already moving to rinse out her cup. The water ran hot and steady, steam curling up around her fingers.

Joel stepped to the door. One hand on the frame, the other brushing the brim of his coat like he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

“If you change your mind,” he said, voice low, “about the ride… you know where to find me.”

The cup hit the sink harder than it needed to—ceramic clinking loud against the metal basin. Not enough to break, but close.

Joel paused.

She didn’t look at him. Just kept her hands under the stream, the water rising higher around her wrists.

He lingered a second longer. Half-turned. Hesitated.

Then nodded to himself—once, small—and let the door close behind him.

Eira stood still, listening to the click of his boots fading down the path.

The silence pressed against her shoulders like a heavy cardigan.

Chapter Text

Not gonna happen.

That was her first thought as the door clicked shut behind Joel. His voice still lingered—low, careful, almost hopeful. "If you change your mind..."

She wouldn't. Not about the ride. Not about anything that asked for closeness.

Eira wiped her hands dry and moved with sudden efficiency. She didn’t want to think. Didn’t want to stand still long enough for the conversation to settle into her bones. The only way out was forward—tasks, steps, movement.

Focus mode.

She tugged on her boots, shoved her arms into a jacket that still smelled faintly of woodsmoke, and reached for the door—only to stop short.

Right—the kitchen.

Her stomach tightened—not from nerves, but from hunger. She turned, scanned the empty counters, the cracked lump of bread still sitting on the table, untouched. She hadn’t even eaten it.

With a quiet breath through her nose, she crossed to a drawer near the back of the kitchen and pulled out a small bundle of food stamps she’d forgotten she had. Folded, faded, still valid.

Fine.

Market it is.

The “market” tried its best. Someone—probably Maria—had gone to a lot of effort to make it feel like a real store. Old shelves lined the walls, filled with re-wrapped goods and handwritten tags. There was even a tiny basket section, though most people just carried what they could.

But it all felt… fake. Like a simulation of the past, not the real thing.

That’s what her mother had called it once—“a pretend store,” she’d said, coming home from a food run with cracked knuckles and a tight jaw. “Like someone watched a movie of what shopping used to be and tried to recreate it from memory.”

Eira had been too young then to understand. Barely four when everything fell apart. Whatever memories she might’ve had of real grocery stores were thin and dream-like—flashes of shelves too tall, humming lights, something cold against her cheek as she leaned into a cart.

Now, walking the narrow aisles of Jackson’s makeshift market, she finally got what her mother meant.

It wasn’t just the awkward layout or the mismatched goods. It was the pretending of it all—the way it tried to mimic comfort but never quite made it. Like someone had built a memory out of cardboard and called it normal.

Eira stepped inside, the makeshift bell above the door giving a soft metallic clang.

The air inside smelled faintly of old flour and pickled beets. Somewhere near the back, a quiet voice murmured numbers under breath—someone counting rations, maybe. Eira didn’t look.

She didn’t have a list. Didn’t need one. Her body moved on autopilot—down one aisle, then the next.

Dried fruit. Eggs. Canned meat. Canned potatoes. Butter. Flour. Yeast. Bread—just one loaf, rough-looking but passable.

She held the items in her arms, navigating the store like a ghost. She was just about to turn a corner toward the checkout when a soft voice nearby floated into her awareness.

"…no, I think we had two crates come in, not three."

Eira paused. That voice was familiar.

Then, more directly—“Eira?”

She turned, already tensing, groceries gathered in her arms.

Maria stood a few feet away, wrapped in a thick brown jacket, clipboard in one hand, eyes warm but clearly surprised. Not the kind of surprise you fake—like seeing someone you weren’t sure still existed.

“Well look at you,” Maria said, smiling. “Wasn’t expecting to see you here this early.”

“Morning,” Eira replied. Polite. Even. Her voice didn’t carry much else.

Maria stepped closer, her gaze drifting to the food in Eira’s arms. “How’ve you been? Bran doing alright?”

“Fine.”

“And the cabin?”

“Still standing.”

Maria chuckled. “That’s always a plus.”

She glanced again at Eira, like she was hoping for more—but Eira just waited. Unmoving.

Maria tried again. “You need anything? More propane? Wood? I think Gail mentioned you were still using the small stove.”

“No, I’m good.”

Each answer was short, clipped just enough to signal she wasn’t looking for a long exchange. Eira shifted her weight slightly, preparing to say, "Well—it was nice seeing ya but—"

But Maria beat her to it.

“You know,” she said, shifting her weight, tone changing just slightly, “you’ve been here a while now. What’s it been—three, four months?”

Eira blinked, stomach dipping slightly like she'd been called out in class. “Something like that.”

“We usually only give new folks a month to get settled in before we start assigning work.” Maria gave her a look that was firm, but not unkind. “Your circumstances were different. We all knew that.”

Maria paused, choosing her words with care.

“But I think it’s time we get you out of the house. Do something a little more productive. Might help you feel more… part of things, you know? You’ve kept to yourself. People notice.”

That landed heavier than Eira expected. It wasn’t a reprimand, just a quiet observation. A mirror held up without judgment.

You’ve kept to yourself.

She had. Deliberately.

And people noticed.

Not in a loud, confrontational way—just in the quiet spaces she left behind. In the greetings she didn’t return.

She hadn’t meant to come off cold. She just didn’t want to invite anything in.

Her stomach tightened.

“Oh. Wow, okay, yeah um…” she shifted the groceries in her arms. “What kind of work is there?”

Maria glanced down at her clipboard. “There’s always the usual—homestead work mostly. We’ve got three working farms inside the wall, and two outside. Always need help with feed, milking, coop cleaning, mucking pens, that kind of thing.”

Eira nodded slowly. Familiar territory. She’d done all of that before she could spell her own name.

“We’ve also got some folks preserving food, working greenhouses, even making cheese and butter these days. Bit more seasonal, but still plenty to do.”

Eira adjusted the loaf of bread under her arm. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

Maria gave her a look. “We’ve got apprenticeships too. Mechanics, electricians, plumbing, even basic blacksmithing. The town’s trying to train folks up, long term.”

Eira shook her head lightly. “Not really my thing.”

Maria smiled knowingly. “Didn’t think so. Not yet, anyway.”

Eira looked away, already expecting the next suggestion to be patrols. She tensed.

“We’ve also been rotating folks on supply runs,” Maria said. “Not patrols—don’t worry. You’d be running goods, not scouting for danger. Most of the time it’s bartering between communities or fetching caches that were stashed months ago. A couple days out, travel light, travel smart.”

That caught Eira’s attention.

Maria saw the flicker and added, “It’s voluntary. Takes someone who can keep quiet, think fast. Works better solo or in pairs. Not everyone’s suited for it.”

Eira considered it. Supply runs sounded more like her. Independent. Purposeful. Quiet.

“I could do that,” she said after a moment.

Maria tilted her head. “Yeah? I’ll mention it to Tommy. He oversees the routes.”

Maria lingered a second longer, glancing over her clipboard again before speaking.

“If you’re serious about the supply runs, just know—it’s not a grab-your-pack-and-go kind of thing. You’ll need to train first. Get cleared.”

Eira raised an eyebrow. “Train?”

Maria nodded. “We don’t send people out unless they’re ready. You’ll need to be able to handle a rifle, know the terrain, sleep rough. Maybe even drive or ride a carriage, depending on the run.”

Eira gave a small nod. “I’ve done most of that.”

Maria looked at her. “Alone?”

Eira hesitated. Then, “No. Not alone.”

Maria’s voice softened. “That’s part of it too. Supply runs aren’t like patrols, but they’re still risky. We don’t send anyone out solo—not anymore. Too many didn’t come back. You’d be paired up. Learn how to work with someone. Trust them to have your back.”

That part sat heavier. Eira didn’t say anything right away.

She could work with someone. She’d done it before. Followed orders, shared space. But that was different. That was before she knew what it meant to flinch at your own name. Before silence had become armor.

This—being paired up—meant proximity. Touch. Accidental, maybe. A brush of a hand. Someone reaching past her shoulder. Someone standing too close in the dark.

Her jaw clenched.

Once, maybe a few months after… everything, her father had come up behind her in the barn. Just messing around, like he used to. He’d grabbed her neck with a playful squeeze, trying to startle her into laughter.

Her body hadn’t taken it that way.

She’d dropped instantly, like the floor had vanished beneath her. Breath gone. Dirt in her teeth. Her father’s voice had broken through eventually—confused, worried, calling her name.

She hadn’t spoken for hours.

He hadn’t meant anything by it.

But after that, he never touched her without warning.

It hadn’t been that long ago. And she still didn’t know what would happen if someone reached for her wrong. If they touched the part of her she didn’t let anyone near.

Maria didn’t press. Her voice came again, softer this time, tugging Eira out of the memory.

“I’ll talk to Tommy. Might be able to start you with Jesse. He’s usually on patrol, but he’s done his fair share of runs. Knows the routes.”

Eira’s jaw tightened slightly. “Okay.”

“You’re not committing to anything yet,” Maria added. “Just… training. Seeing if it suits you.”

“Right,” Eira said. “Training.”

But in her gut, she already knew she wouldn’t back out. She couldn’t afford to.

Maria smiled—kind, but not pitying. “You’re tougher than you think.”

Eira didn’t answer. Just nodded once, the loaf of bread pressed tight to her chest like she might crush it.

Then she turned back toward the counter, walking the narrow aisle like it took effort not to bolt.

Eira stepped out into the cool afternoon, groceries balanced in her arms. The sky had turned that low, heavy kind of gray—the kind that made everything feel quieter than it was.

The walk back to the cabin wasn’t far, but it was long enough for Maria’s words to catch up.

You’ve kept to yourself. People notice.

Not an accusation. Just a fact. And maybe that was how she preferred it.

By the time she reached her porch, her arms ached and her thoughts had folded in tight.

She set the groceries down on the table and stood there for a moment, coat still on, breath fogging faintly in the still air.

Easier to stay on the outside of things. Safer. If no one knew what you were carrying, they couldn’t try to take it from you. Couldn’t drop it, either.

She peeled off her jacket and started unpacking—slow, methodical, like maybe putting food in its place would put her head in order too.

If Maria knew how much she needed the silence—how much she depended on it—maybe she wouldn’t have said it was time. Time to work. Time to step in. Time to train.

But maybe Maria did know.

Maybe that was exactly why she’d said it.

When the last can was tucked into place, Eira stood there longer than she needed to, palms braced against the edge of the counter.

She liked being a little unapproachable. A little sharp around the edges. It kept people from trying to round her out.

But now she’d said yes—sort of. Which meant showing up. Maybe even speaking. Maybe even trusting.

She didn’t like the sound of that.

She lit the stove, filled the kettle. Watched the blue flame curl under the iron like it was trying to say something simple and steady.

There was a fine line between being private and being… off.

She wasn’t sure which side of it she was on anymore.

It didn’t take much to slip—just a few clipped answers, a few turned shoulders. A tone that said don’t.

She wasn’t trying to be rude. Wasn’t trying to be cold.

She just didn’t want anyone in.

She could be polite. She was polite.

“Morning.”
“No, thanks.”
“I’m good.”

Those were enough, most of the time. Enough to get by. Enough to keep her shape.

But every now and then—with Maria, with Joel—she could feel something brittle in the way her words landed. Not just quiet. Closed.

And people could feel that, even if they didn’t know what it was.

It made her harder to approach. Less… anything.

Maybe that was fine. Maybe that was even the point.

Still, if she was going to train—if she was going to be paired with someone like Jesse—she’d need to find a middle ground.

Not open. Not friendly.

But not unreadable, either.

Something in between. Something that said: I’ll carry my weight. Just don’t ask me to smile while I do it.

The kettle whistled. She poured the tea, let the steam fog her face for a second before stepping away.

She sat at the table, fingers curled around the mug. The heat grounded her, but her thoughts kept moving—spooling out ahead of her, then circling back.

She hadn’t committed to anything. That’s what Maria had said.

But she’d already said yes. In her way.

And that meant Jesse. A partner. Someone to navigate beside.

She imagined telling him, I don’t need friends. Just give me a job and stay out of my way.

She didn’t know if he’d laugh or call her bluff. She had a feeling he wouldn’t just nod and move on.

Of course not. No one ever did when you wanted them to.

She drank the rest of the tea. Let the silence settle, then stood, pulling her coat back on.

She reached for the scarf by the door—moss-green, rough wool, the one that used to hang from her mother’s coat peg. She didn’t need it. The cold wasn’t sharp yet.

But it helped. Something wrapped around her neck. A small anchor.

Bran needed tending anyway. And the thought of the stables—the familiar weight of hay, the sound of hooves, the clean warmth of the horses—was a kind of quiet she could stomach.

The cabin door groaned when she opened it, then clicked shut behind her.

The air had shifted since morning. Cooler, wind pushing slow through the trees. Gray clouds stacked low, heavy with something that hadn’t decided whether it would fall.

The walk to the stables took her past a few homes—shutters drawn, wood smoke curling from chimneys. She nodded once to a man hauling chopped wood. He nodded back but didn’t speak—more out of reflex than expectation. Still, his eyes lingered a second longer than necessary, like he wasn’t used to being acknowledged by her. Most weren’t.

When she reached the fence near the stables, she slowed. The sound of horses, the occasional clink of tack, someone humming low under their breath.

Bran was already watching her from his stall when she stepped inside, ears flicking forward, then back again in that way he did when he was pretending not to be happy to see her.

“Hey, boy,” she murmured, brushing hay off her hands.

He nickered softly, nudging her shoulder with his nose.

She ran a hand down his neck, feeling the tension unwind from her body like a knot finally loosened. This was different. Here, she could breathe. Bran didn’t need her to explain anything. He just needed oats, water, movement.

Maybe she’d ride him around town, just for a bit. Just enough to stretch his legs—and hers. No one would stop her. If they waved, she could nod. That was easy.

She grabbed a brush from the wall and got to work, letting the motion pull her thoughts into line. Routine was its own kind of healing. Grooming, saddling, moving. Muscle memory carried her where words couldn’t.

Later, when she was out past the inner edge of Jackson’s main street, riding slow, reins loose in her hands, she let her mind drift just a little.

She pictured Jesse again. Whoever he was. Someone who’d done this sort of thing before. Someone who’d been paired up more than once. She wondered if he’d talk the whole time. Or if he’d understand when to shut up.

If not… well, she’d find a way to make it work. She had before.

They could keep to the basics. Routes. Timing. Inventory. Not the past. Not feelings. Not the scar beneath her shoulder or the other one no one could see.

She didn’t need to be understood.

Just useful.

Just quiet.

Just… good enough not to be sent home.

Bran whuffed beneath her, and she patted his side absently, guiding him toward the edge of town, where the trees were thinner and the fence line curved in like a waiting hand.

The world out here felt bigger. And smaller. Safer, but still honest.

No pretending out here. Just space. Just sky.

She let Bran walk slow, let the cold brush her cheeks, and didn’t think too hard about tomorrow.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

By the time Eira left the stables, the wind had picked up, cutting low through the valley in steady, restless sweeps. The light was thinning fast—flat and gray, with no sign of sun, only the hint of snow on the air.

She pulled her scarf higher and set a steady pace, head down, boots crunching the gravel with familiar rhythm.

She was halfway down the path toward her cabin when she heard the quick beat of boots catching up behind her.

“Hey! I was looking for you.”

Eira turned slightly, just enough to see Jesse falling into step beside her.

She blinked once, neutral. “Why?”

He gave a half-smile, a little out of breath. “Tommy told me about training. Said you were interested.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just looked ahead again, the crunch of gravel underfoot doing most of the talking.

Jesse didn’t seem fazed. “Figured I’d get a head start. Walk you home. Talk basics.”

A pause. Not unfriendly—just there.

“You don’t have to,” she said eventually.

“I know.”

They walked on. Jesse kept to her pace, hands in his pockets, not crowding.

“I’m not big on talking,” she said after a while. Not a warning, not exactly.

“That’s fine,” Jesse said. “As long as you listen.”

That earned the slightest twitch at the corner of her mouth. Not quite a smile. Not not one, either.

“I’ll be at the range in the morning,” he said, nodding toward the street. “We’ll start there.”

She gave a small nod. It wasn’t yes. But it wasn’t no, either.

Jesse didn’t press. Just backed away with a quick wave.

And across the street, on his porch, Joel stood watching. He didn’t speak. Just waited.

His expression was hard to read—tight around the eyes, like maybe he hadn’t expected to see her walking with anyone. Not like this. Not with Jesse.

She wasn’t sure. Didn’t want to be sure.

But something in his posture had changed. Like he wasn’t sure what he felt about it either.

Eira’s spine tightened, but she didn’t stop to look twice. She slipped through her gate and shut it behind her.

The cabin was quiet again.

Outside, the wind had picked up—soft gusts rattling the edges of the shutters. Eira stood at the stove, sleeves pushed up, one hand on the handle of a dented pot. Steam curled upward from the bubbling surface, bringing the scent of garlic, broth, and something vaguely tomatoed into the air.

She wasn’t frustrated with the food. She could cook. Always could. It wasn’t fancy, but it was warm and filling.

Still, her jaw stayed tight.

She stirred harder than necessary, the spoon clinking dully against the sides. The fire beneath the pot hissed as it caught a draft, flickering wildly for a second before settling again.

It wasn’t the cooking.

It was his face.

Joel.

That look he’d given her earlier—like she’d done something wrong just by walking next to someone else. Like her almost-smile at Jesse’s dry comment had been some kind of betrayal.

She hadn’t meant to smile. Not really. And it wasn’t even a smile, not in the full sense of it. Just something in the corner of her mouth. A shift. Barely there. And she didn’t like how easy Jesse had made it.

But Joel had seen it.

She knew he had.

And his expression had gone strange. Not angry. Not disappointed. Just… unreadable in that way that made her skin itch.

Like he’d expected something else from her. Something different.

Joel had helped her, more than once. In his own way. Quiet, steady. But help didn’t mean ownership. And it didn’t mean she owed him her softness.

Well, too bad.

She stirred again. The smell of the broth caught in her throat.

She turned down the flame and stepped back, leaning both hands on the counter. Let the silence wrap around her again.

No one had the right to feel anything about her choices. Especially not Joel.

But still, his face lingered.

That unreadable thing he carried. Like maybe he’d hoped to be the only one she’d walk beside.

As if Jesse had taken something that was never offered in the first place.

Her throat felt dry.

During last week’s cleaning spree—the kind where you organize just to feel like something’s in your control—she’d moved her mother’s last opened bottle into the kitchen. It had sat untouched for months on the shelf above her mother’s old sewing chest, half-buried beneath scarves and a dried-out lavender bundle. Now it lived behind the flour tin.

She pulled it out now—dark glass, label worn soft from age. She hadn’t opened it since Thea. Hadn’t needed to.

But that night at the Tipsy Bison… when Seth had handed her a drink, low and casual, like it was nothing. She’d taken a sip. And it hadn’t felt bad. Warm, if anything. Leveling.

So she fetched a glass. Poured just an inch of the amber-brown liquor. The scent hit first—strong and earthy, like old fruit left in sunlight. Then the taste.

She took a small sip.

It burned a little. Not too much. Just enough to steady her, in a way water wouldn’t.

Back at the stove, she ladled out a portion of the stew into a chipped bowl. Sat down again, the liquor glass beside her, still catching the last of the light.

She ate slowly. It didn’t taste bad—just simple.

She’d cooked better meals before, with fresher ingredients, but it filled her up.

When the bowl was empty, she finished the last of her drink and leaned back in the chair, letting her shoulders sink for the first time all day.

The silence wasn’t heavy now. Just present. A low hum beneath her ribs.

She exhaled a long breath through her nose.

Her eyes drifted to the guitar in the corner.

This time, she reached for it.

The wood was cool under her fingers, familiar and a little foreign all at once. She sat back down, resting the guitar on her thigh, and pulled the small notebook from the drawer beside her. The one with half-scribbled lyrics, tuning reminders, and the chord diagrams Joel had drawn out for More Than Words.

She flipped to the page, traced the G with her thumb.

Just a few chords. Nothing loud. Nothing finished.

But it was something.

She adjusted her grip on the neck and let her fingers settle into place. The first strum was barely more than a breath — rough, uncertain — but the sound filled the room anyway.

Later

Joel shut the door behind him with a quiet thud, porch air still clinging to his skin like a ghost that hadn’t gotten the message. He didn’t turn on the lights. Just moved through the dark with practiced ease, straight to the kitchen.

He poured himself a glass of whiskey. No ceremony. No ice.

He sat at the counter, elbows braced, glass in one hand.

From the porch, he’d seen them—Eira and Jesse. Walking slow. Side by side. Like it meant nothing at all. Like it came easy.

She hadn’t been frowning. Hadn’t looked guarded. And Jesse—damn him—looked right at home. Relaxed. Comfortable in his own skin, like that sort of thing came natural.

Joel took a sip. Slow. The burn lit his throat, but it didn’t dull much.

He didn’t even know what he was feeling. Not really.

He’d tried—he really had. On that ride, he’d asked questions, tried to reach her, ease her into conversation. It had gone well. Good, even. Until that damn Bison.

Then she’d shut down. Quiet. Distant.

And when he’d offered to fix her MP3 after weeks of cold silences, he’d thought maybe—just maybe—music might be a thread. A way back. Something steady.

But since then? Just nods. Polite. Hollow. No eye contact. No warmth.

Like he was a stranger again.

Like she was pulling away, not settling in.

And when he’d offered another ride—just something small—she’d flinched. Like the idea of him reaching out was too much.

He took another drink. Let it settle deep.

And now Jesse gets a quip. A half-smile. A walk home.

Joel clenched his jaw.

It shouldn’t bother him.

But it did.

Because Jesse was young. Light on his feet. Probably didn’t overthink every damn thing. Probably didn’t carry a graveyard on his back.

Joel felt older just watching him. Not just in years—but in weight.

And maybe Eira felt that too.

The door creaked upstairs.

Ellie padded in, hoodie half-swallowed by her shoulders, socks mismatched. She paused at the kitchen’s edge.

“Wow. Whiskey already?”

Joel grunted. “It’s one glass.”

“Uh-huh.” She plucked an apple from the bowl, flopped into the armchair, and pulled out her knife. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look.”

“The broody whiskey one.”

“I don’t brood.”

“You totally do. You just do it slower and with more sighing.”

Joel didn’t answer.

Ellie peeled the apple with lazy precision. “Anyway, Dina and I went up to the overlook today. Thought we spotted deer.”

He nodded. “Yeah?”

“Turned out to be a very fat fox. And like… seventeen rabbits.”

Joel huffed quietly.

Ellie smirked. “Oh, and guess what Dina told me?”

Joel raised an eyebrow. “What.”

“Jesse’s gonna train Eira.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Apparently Maria gave her the classic ‘contribute to the community’ pep talk,” Ellie said, doing an impression of Maria’s firm tone. “So now Jesse’s training her.”

Joel set the glass down, not gently.

“What do you mean train her?” His voice sharpened. “For patrol?”

It hit hard, fast. No way. Eira had said she wasn’t ready. He’d felt it. She wasn’t ready. The thought of Tommy pushing her—

He nearly stood.

But Ellie waved him off. “No, no. Supply runs. Not patrol.”

Still outside.

Still dangerous.

Still too soon.

He looked toward the window, where the dark had settled deep.

“She turned me down for a ride earlier,” he muttered. “Wouldn’t even look at me.”

Ellie gave a sly grin. “What’d you do? Something creepy old-man-like?”

He scowled. “I offered another ride. That’s all.”

Ellie cocked her head. “All serious, weren’t you? Like: if you change your mind…”

Joel said nothing. Which told her everything.

Ellie cracked up. “Oh my god, you totally did.”

He picked up the glass, turning it in his hand.

“Maybe,” she said, gentler now, “it felt like more than a ride. To her.”

He didn’t respond.

“You know,” she added, “you could just talk to her.”

Joel scoffed. “You think that’s how she works?”

“I think that’s how people work.”

He stared down into the whiskey again, catching the distorted shape of his reflection in the curve of the glass.

“You don’t think I tried?” he said, voice low. “She’s got higher walls than me.”

Ellie tilted her head, quiet for a beat. Then a grin curled up the corner of her mouth.

“Yeah, well… maybe just let her be for a while.” She leaned back, eyes teasing. “Bet she comes crawling.”

Joel choked on his last sip—coughed hard, setting the glass down with a sharper clink than intended.

Ellie laughed. “What? I’m just sayin’. You get all growly and complicated, and she’ll probably show up at your door like nothing ever happened.”

Joel wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, shot her a glare that was more tired than mad.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

“Night, grump,” Ellie called, already heading upstairs.

Joel stayed seated.

Looked at the empty glass.

Then toward the dark window, porch light glowing faint behind the fogged glass.

She wouldn’t come knocking.

He knew that.

Still—some stupid, stubborn part of him kept listening for it anyway.

Joel stayed seated for a while, elbows planted on the counter, glass turned slowly in his hand even though it was already empty. The burn in his throat had faded, but something sharper lingered behind the ribs.

Ellie’s footsteps creaked up the stairs. Her door shut with a soft click.

He let out a slow breath, rubbed a hand across his jaw.

Then he stood. Poured himself another glass.

Didn’t sit this time. Just leaned against the counter and looked toward the window, where frost was starting to catch in the corners of the glass.

The old floor creaked beneath his boots as he crossed to the front door. He opened it with a push of his shoulder, stepped out onto the porch.

The night air met him with a sting, cold and still. His breath fogged in front of him. The sky was dark, the kind of dark that settled into bones, not just the world around you.

He leaned against the railing, thumb hooked on his belt, whiskey warming his blood.

Across the way, past a narrow stretch of fence and the hushed trees, a warm glow still burned behind Eira’s kitchen window.

Just one light. Just enough to cast her silhouette against the curtain—blurred, indistinct. He couldn’t see what she was doing. Just that she hadn’t gone to bed yet.

He wondered if she ever slept through the night.

Wondered what she’d say if he knocked.

His fingers curled lightly around the porch rail.

Well, if she won’t come knocking…

The thought came unguarded. Whiskey-dumb, maybe. But it stuck.

Still, he didn’t move. Not yet.

He just stood there, quiet in the dark, watching the flicker of her life from a distance.

The space between them felt wider than it had an hour ago. Wider than the walk she’d taken with Jesse.

Still, he stayed. Just a little longer.

Then, quietly, he finished the last sip of his drink and adjusted his coat against the cold.

And took a step down the porch stairs.

Chapter Text

Joel stepped off the road and onto the gravel path that led to her cabin, boots crunching soft underfoot. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing—not really. The whiskey hadn’t made him reckless, just loosened something that was already fraying.

Ahead, Eira’s porch light glowed low and amber, casting a narrow triangle onto the steps.

He caught the faint creak of the window before he saw it open.

Joel slowed his step, squinting through the dark. Eira’s silhouette moved just behind the curtain as she cracked the glass open an inch, letting the warm light and a sliver of sound spill into the cold.

Joel instinctively stepped off the path, boots shifting softly into the brush. He waited—heart stupidly still—half-expecting her to peer out.

But she didn’t.

She just turned away again.

And a moment later, the guitar started.

The chords came slow, a little clumsy. A pause. Then again—surer this time. A rhythm taking shape. And beneath it, her voice, soft and a little breathless.

Joel moved closer. Quiet.

He didn’t climb the porch—not yet. Just listened from the base of the steps, the song drifting down like smoke.

More Than Words.

He blinked, surprised. Smiled, absentmindedly.

He remembered it now, clear as anything—her beside him on that ride, arms crossed, half-guarded.

“You got a favorite?” he’d asked.

She’d hesitated. “Yeah.”

He’d waited. She hadn’t given it. Just said, “It’s kind of cheesy.”

He’d raised an eyebrow. “Now I definitely wanna know.”

She’d smirked. “Too bad.”

Well. Not too bad now.

Joel eased down onto the steps, slow so they wouldn’t creak under him. He kept his elbows on his knees, hunched against the cold, and listened.

She wasn’t a natural, but she wasn’t half bad either. Some timing issues. Voice a little unsteady on the low end. And the guitar—Christ, it needed new strings. The high E buzzed like a damn mosquito every time she hit it.

But still.

She was playing. Singing. Trying.

Joel let it sit in his chest for a minute—warmed, in a way the whiskey hadn’t managed.

He didn’t know how long he stayed there. A few minutes. A few songs. Or maybe just the one, stretched out in quiet fits and starts.

Eventually, he stood.

Careful. Silent.

Then turned back down the path toward his own porch.

With a decision made.

And a mission in mind.

Eira woke to a faint throb behind her eyes and the grainy weight of half-slept hours. Not a full headache—just the edges of one, like her skull hadn’t fully made peace with the night.

She blinked against the early gray light bleeding through the curtain seams. Sat up slow.

The cabin was cold, still holding the night's chill in the floorboards.

She swung her legs out of bed, bare feet pressing to the worn rug, and made her way to the kitchen.

The kettle went on the stove with a soft clatter. She turned the knob, let the flame catch, and stood there for a second, fingers braced on the counter, waiting for the hiss to start.

Her gaze shifted to the clock on the wall.

6:03 AM.

Right on time. Jesse had said seven. First day at the range.

She left the kitchen and pulled on real clothes—jeans, a worn thermal, boots. Nothing special. She didn’t care how she looked, not really. She just didn’t want to give anyone a reason to say something.

She stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the collar of her jacket with one hand.

The reflection didn’t surprise her anymore—just pale skin, the soft pinch of weariness under her eyes, that uneven jawline where the scissors had met hair in a rough, impulsive hack. The curls didn’t sit clean, but they stayed out of her face.

Her gaze dropped, tracking the angles of her frame. Leaner now. Not by choice.

And then, without warning, a memory surfaced—sharp and sun-warmed. She saw herself back at the farm, in the wide kitchen window’s reflection. Fuller then. Not just in body but in something else—ease, maybe. A steadier rhythm. Her cheeks hadn’t hollowed yet. Her arms had felt strong from work, not wiry from want.

They’d had food back then. Real food. Fresh produce from the garden rows, eggs that still held warmth when gathered. Her mother had always said they were lucky, but Eira hadn’t felt luck. Just normalcy.

Now she understood the difference.

The piping whistle of the kettle snapped her out of the memory.

She turned, quick and quiet, and lifted it from the flame before it could get any louder. The sound rattled off into silence as she set it aside.

She reached for her thermos, uncapped it, and dropped in two tea bags. The honey followed—just a spoonful, scraped from the bottom of the jar—before she poured in the hot water. Steam curled up into her face, soft and herbal.

She closed the lid and set the thermos down with a dull thunk on the counter.

No breakfast. Just the tea. Her stomach wasn’t ready for anything else.

As she made her way to the door and stepped outside, something caught her eye.

A plastic bag, dangling from the outer doorknob.

She froze.

It swung gently in the morning air, half-lit by the creeping sun. Nothing dramatic—just a grocery bag, knotted tight at the top—but it hadn’t been there last night. She was sure of it.

Someone had been here.

Her throat tightened. She glanced toward the path, then around the yard. No footprints in the frost. No shadow slipping behind trees. Just wind and quiet and the hush before the town stirred.

She looked back at the bag. Didn’t touch it right away.

Instead, she stared at it, arms still at her sides, a creeping unease under her skin. Who? Why?

Carefully, she reached out and pinched the corner of the plastic between two fingers, lifting it slightly. Inside, she could feel the faint outlines of something coiled and firm beneath the thin layer of plastic—cold, springy, and deliberate, like tightly wound wire.

Her fingertips paused.

She adjusted her grip, eased the bag open.

Deeper in, her hand brushed something heavier. Sharper-edged. Solid metal, unmoving. A tool?

Her breath caught. Chest squeezed.

She opened the bag fully.

Eira stared down at the contents of the bag, brow furrowed.

Guitar strings and a wire cutter?

Her confusion deepened. She turned the items slightly in her hands, as if another angle might explain it. But they were just what they looked like—new, clean, deliberately chosen. This wasn’t junk someone left behind. It was meant for her.

She looked up, eyes scanning the quiet street, the rows of fences, the shuttered windows across the way. Was someone watching?

She couldn’t see anyone. Couldn’t hear anything but the kettle inside still clicking as it cooled and the soft rustle of wind through the trees.

Who could’ve left this?

She didn’t know many people here. And this… this hadn’t been easy to come by. Guitar strings weren’t exactly a common find anymore. Let alone the cutter.

Her grip tightened around the bag.

She didn’t like this—being on the receiving end of a favor she couldn’t trace. It felt like debt. Invisible and weightless, maybe, but debt all the same. She hated that.

And yet…

Still, it warmed something in her chest, low and reluctant. A small ember she wouldn’t admit to. Not out loud. Not even to herself.

She stood there for another long second, bag in hand, trying to quiet the part of her that wanted to smile.

She opened the door again, the hinges creaking softly in the morning quiet, and stepped back inside.

The bag felt heavier now, not from weight, but from meaning. She set it on the kitchen table, careful but not too careful, like if she thought about it too hard it might change shape on her.

She didn’t have time for this. Not right now. But she would get to it—when she got home.

With one last glance at it, she turned and stepped outside again. Pulled the door shut behind her with a quiet finality.

As she walked, she tugged her headphones over her ears and clicked play on her MP3.

Don’t Speak by No Doubt poured into her head—wistful and biting, layered with something familiar.

She let out a soft, involuntary chuckle.

“Fitting,” she murmured to no one.

And kept walking.

The morning air bit at her cheeks as she crossed the open stretch behind the barns. The snow hadn’t come yet, but it hung on the breeze—just a whisper of cold sharp enough to make her tuck her chin into her collar.

The shooting range came into view past the chain-link fence, wooden targets lined up in uneven rows. Eira adjusted the strap of her bag and stepped through the gate.

Jesse was already there.

Of course he was.

He stood near the far bench, rifle slung casually across his back, a mug of something steaming in his hand. He looked up at the sound of the latch clicking behind her.

“Morning,” he called.

Eira raised a hand in greeting but didn’t speak. She wasn’t late. Not really. Ten minutes, maybe. And he’d said she could come whenever.

Still, something in her gut curled a little. Like she’d already fallen behind.

Jesse didn’t seem bothered. He just gestured to the bench beside him. “Brought an extra, in case you didn’t have any."

She gave a nod, mouthed a quiet thanks.

The shooting range was little more than a flat stretch of packed dirt fenced off with salvaged wood and wire, backed by a tall hill of sandbags and stacked tires meant to catch stray rounds. A few faded targets fluttered at different distances—paper taped to plywood, the bullseyes faded from weather and repeated use.

Jesse walked ahead, his breath visible in the morning chill, and set down a small canvas case near the bench. He unzipped it and pulled out two hunting rifles—bolt-action—alongside a pair of handguns wrapped in cloth. He handled each with practiced care, checking the chambers, laying them out in a neat row.

Eira stayed quiet, eyes scanning the layout. The air smelled of old smoke and spent brass, dry earth and pine. Wind carried the sound of distant roosters from the edge of town.

“You ever used anything like these?” Jesse asked, picking up one of the rifles and offering it to her.

She nodded. “Yeah. I used to… go shooting with my parents,” she said stiffly.

Jesse’s eyebrows lifted slightly. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Right. Of course.”

The silence sat between them for a beat before Jesse cleared his throat and pointed toward the closest target—maybe twenty yards out.

“Let’s start simple,” he said. “I wanna see how your form is.”

Eira stepped forward, accepted the rifle with both hands, and dropped into a half-crouch behind one of the makeshift benches. She checked the safety, thumbed the bolt, and looked through the scope. Her breath steadied without her meaning to.

She could feel Jesse behind her—not looming, not intrusive, but there. Watching.

It made her skin prickle.

Not because he was doing anything wrong. Just… because she wasn’t used to this anymore. Being openly observed.

Her shoulder tensed slightly, jaw tightening.

But she didn’t let the feeling settle. She locked it down. Shifted forward. Focused.

The stock rested firm against her shoulder. She narrowed her eyes, adjusted her aim.

Released the safety and fired.

The rifle cracked—a clean, sharp sound that echoed once across the range. A plume of dust kicked up behind the target. Too high.

Jesse, standing a pace behind, gave a short nod. “Not bad. Drop your shoulder a little. You’re sighting too high.”

Eira shifted. Adjusted. Fired again.

This time the shot clipped the outer ring. Better.

She narrowed her eyes, exhaled through her nose, and realigned her stance. The third shot split the target’s edge—close enough to earn a murmur of approval from Jesse.

He stepped forward slightly, voice steady. “Getting there.”

Eira didn’t reply, but the corner of her mouth twitched—half pride, half concentration.

They cycled through more rounds. Her form tightened with each shot. Jesse offered quiet corrections between bursts. “Don’t crush the trigger. Let it break clean.” “Breathe out before you squeeze.”

Eira exhaled slowly, adjusted her grip again, and fired a third shot—bullseye.

Jesse gave a low whistle. “Hey, look at that, you got it.”

She said nothing, but a quiet satisfaction flickered across her features.

They kept at it—cycling through a few more rounds. Jesse gave small pointers between shots. Loosen your elbow. Don’t lock your wrist. Keep your cheek steady on the stock.

After a while, they moved on to the handguns. Jesse showed her a steady two-handed grip, how to keep the kick manageable, how to reload without fumbling.

The pistol barked louder than the rifle, sharper and messier in recoil. Eira flinched once, adjusted, and found her rhythm again.

Spent casings bounced across the packed dirt. Smoke curled low near the muzzle. Her arms ached by the time they stepped back.

Jesse set his hands on his hips, looking at her with a half-smile. “You’re rusty,” he said. “But you’re not green.”

Eira shrugged. “Still targets are easy,” she muttered. “Real ones don’t wait around.”

That surprised a grin out of him.

“Fair enough.”

They packed up in relative quiet. The chill hadn't quite lifted, and Eira's arms ached faintly from the recoil, the weight of repetition settling in her muscles. Jesse zipped the canvas case shut and slung it over one shoulder as they made their way back toward the gate.

At the edge of the range, Jesse hesitated. He lifted a hand toward her shoulder—half a gesture, meant as a casual pat, maybe encouragement.

Eira took a step to the side. Not dramatic. Just enough to miss it.

Jesse's hand dropped. A flicker of something—awkwardness, maybe—passed across his face.

“Heh. Well… good job today,” he said, trying for breezy. “You did better than I expected.”

Eira offered a tight nod, polite. That should’ve been the end of it.

But Jesse added, “Maybe we could take a ride out. End of the week or something.”

Eira blinked. Her throat felt suddenly small.

A ride. Like a patrol? Like with Joel?

“Yeah. Maybe,” she said, too fast. Then slower: “Thanks for today.”

Good. Polite, she told herself.

Jesse gave her a look—head tilted, unreadable, not pushing. “Well,” he said, stepping back, “Same time tomorrow?”

Eira’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Sure,” she said, and started walking.

Jesse smiled. “Cool.”

And he let her go.

Chapter Text

The stew was leftover from the day before—plain, a little thicker now—but it went down warm. Eira sat at the round kitchen table, elbow braced against the edge, slowly working through each spoonful while the wind hissed soft against the windows.

She didn’t rush. Didn’t feel like there was anywhere to get to.

The day had gone… fine. Better than she expected.

She’d hit the target. Even the bullseye once. Jesse hadn’t hovered, hadn’t pushed. He’d been patient, even kind.

But none of it loosened the knot sitting in her chest.

If anything, it just made the silence feel heavier.

Doing well didn’t feel like a win. Just like she’d held her breath a little longer before the inevitable unraveling.

Her arms still ached faintly from the recoil—tight bands of soreness along her shoulders and wrists, muscles twitching like they hadn’t quite let go. But it wasn’t just the shooting.

It was being seen.

Watched. Judged—kindly, maybe, but judged all the same. Jesse's friendliness hadn’t been the problem. It was the idea of being known.

She wasn’t ready for that.

Not now. Maybe not ever.

She’d kept her face neutral, her voice measured. Polite nods. Steady grip on the rifle. All the careful shapes of a person holding it together.

But now the room was quiet again.

No noise to shape herself around. No one to perform for. And without that… things slipped.

She didn’t want to rely on anyone. 

Because if she started leaning—if she started wanting—

What if they didn’t want to hold her?

What if they tried and couldn’t?

The thoughts circled close, slow and unrelenting. Not teeth, not yet. Just presence.

Eira sighed. Set the spoon down in the empty bowl and stood.

She carried it to the sink, filled it with hot water from the kettle, then turned the tap until the basin rose enough to submerge the rim.

She’d do the dishes later. Probably.

Behind her, on the couch, the guitar waited in shadow.

So did the bag.

She turned slowly. Her gaze caught on both, her heartbeat giving a reluctant thump.

She crossed the room and picked them up together, brought them to the table, and sat.

The guitar looked even older in the direct light—frets worn, wood dulled, string ends curling like brittle hair. Along the neck, she could see faint indents where someone had pressed down hard over and over, leaving shallow grooves in the wood. Not scratches. Not damage. Just… memory, worn into shape.

Eira traced one with her thumb.

Who had this belonged to? Before the world had collapsed? Someone had played it like they meant it. Like it mattered.

She didn’t know if that comforted her or made her feel lonelier.

She pulled the plastic bag open and tipped it gently onto the table.

Coiled strings rolled out in tight little loops. A set of pliers thunked against the wood. A folded scrap of cloth, possibly for cleaning, landed like an afterthought.

Eira stared at them.

“Could at least have given me some instructions,” she muttered.

She had no idea what she was doing.

She picked up one of the coils, turned it between her fingers. It felt delicate. Sharp, too. 

What if she broke something? What if she strung it wrong? What if the neck cracked, or the bridge snapped, or—

She swallowed. Hard.

The wind pressed again at the windows, soft but insistent.

Outside, some porch lights still burned. Her neighbors. Joel’s too. She could see the amber glow of his house across the snow.

Her eyes lingered there for a moment longer than she meant to.

Then she looked back at the guitar. At the bag. At her own hands.

She’d figure it out.

Somehow.

She stared at the guitar like maybe, if she looked long enough, it would string itself. Or offer some kind of hint. A whisper. A diagram. Anything.

Nothing came.

Only the quiet, and the mess of metal and wood on her kitchen table.

Then—a flicker of movement.

A fly, out of nowhere, landed on the pliers. Eira blinked. It sat there like it belonged. Then, just as calmly, it lifted and settled again—this time on the thinnest of the strings. The high E. Buzzed-out and rusted.

Eira narrowed her eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The fly didn’t move.

She wasn’t superstitious. Not really. Not anymore. Signs were for people who hadn’t lived through real things.

Still.

She grabbed the pliers and, before she could talk herself out of it, snipped the string clean.

It snapped back violently—coiling like a whip and catching her wrist with a sharp sting.

“Goddammit. Fucking fly,” she hissed, instinctively clutching her wrist with her other hand. She pressed hard. The pressure helped. Steadied the ache.

She moved into the kitchen light, angling her arm. A thin red welt already rising beside a shallow scratch—bright and angry. It looked like she'd been stung by the world's smallest whip.

She let out a slow breath, then leaned forward, pushing the guitar away with a rough shove. Its weight dragged across the table, scraping faintly.

Eira dropped her elbows onto the wood and buried her face in her hands, cradling her head like it might keep everything else from spilling out.

“Who leaves this kind of stuff to someone?” she muttered, voice muffled. “Why? I don’t even know what I’m doing.”

She paused, then said it again—“I don’t even know what I’m doing.”

The words left her mouth again, quieter this time. But something in them struck deeper now—like they’d finally hit bone. Her throat tightened, breath hitching.

She felt the tears before they reached her eyes. Hot and sudden, pressing behind her lashes like a dam threatening to give. Her hands dropped from her face. She blinked fast, jaw tightening. Her throat contracted, sharp and aching, the kind of pressure that came before ugly crying.

But then—

She laughed.

It broke out of her, sharp and sudden—too loud for the room, too wild to feel safe. She pushed up from the table, stumbling back a little as the laughter kept coming, jagged and breathless.

“I don’t know what I’m doing!” she barked again, half-laughing, half-weeping now. “Oh my god. I really don’t know anything.”

She wiped her face with the sleeve of her shirt as she paced the room in messy circles, the kitchen shrinking around her with every step.

“All you had to do was listen to your dad,” she said to the air, voice cracking between sobs and laughter. “That’s it. That’s all. Just listen.”

Her laugh hiccuped, faltered.

“You’d know how to play more than just shitty bar chords. You’d know fingerstyle. You’d know how to write your own songs. You’d know how to string a goddamn guitar.” Her voice rose, brittle and sharp.

She was near the fireplace now, standing between it and the dinner table, and her feet stopped moving.

“You’d know not to go to that damn supermarket—”

Her voice cracked open. Broke.

And the laughter vanished.

It slid out of her like someone had pulled the breath from her lungs.

She dropped to the floor, arms curling around her knees, folding in on herself.

The crying came full and quiet now. No dramatics. No noise. Just the kind that came from somewhere deep—old and raw and tired.

She felt stupid. Small. So painfully alone.

She wanted to be held. Just that. Just someone’s arms around her. Someone to say, You don’t have to know what you’re doing.

But there was no one here.

And even if someone was here she wouldn't welcome the touch, only push further away, maybe say something she will regret.

The silence settled. Thick and close.

Her breath hitched. In. Out. Too fast.

A sob stuttered in her chest and she pressed her knuckles to her mouth like she could dam it all back.

The world didn’t answer. It just watched.

And then—

Knock knock.

Eira flinched.

Her whole body jerked like someone had fired a shot through the window.

The door creaked.

A voice followed—low, familiar.

“Hello? Eira?”

Joel stepped inside, eyes adjusting to the dim light. His boots scuffed against the threshold as he scanned the room—and then he saw her.

Curled near the fireplace, red-faced, arms wrapped tight around her knees, trembling.

He froze.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

Then Joel stepped forward fast, crouching down beside her.

“Jesus, Eira—what happened? Are you hurt?”

His voice was rushed now, edged with panic. He reached out, guiding her chin up gently, trying to see her face. She didn't fight it—at first. She was too shocked, too disoriented to move.

Joel’s eyes roamed over her, searching for signs of damage. That’s when he saw it—her wrist, the red welt streaked across her skin. His hand reached for her arm instinctively, pulling it toward him to inspect.

“What is this?”

But she wasn’t ready.

Eira jerked as his fingers closed around her arm, the contact sending a flash of something hot and blinding through her—memory, fear, something else she didn’t want to name.

“What happened?” Joel asked again, voice firm, but softer this time.

She yanked her arm back like he’d burned her.

“Let go of me—goddammit!” she snapped, louder than she meant. Her own voice startled her. Sharp. Cracked.

Joel blinked, stunned—but didn’t move away.

Eira scrambled backward, cat-like, trying to put distance between them. Her limbs fumbled beneath her—panic setting in. She went to brace herself but her weight collapsed through it. Her balance gave out.

She fell—but didn’t hit the ground.

Joel caught her.

One strong arm slipped under her back, catching her with reflexes that hadn’t dulled. His other hand steadied her.

The contact—

She flinched violently.

“Don’t touch me!” she shouted, voice ragged. She shoved hard against his chest.

Joel staggered backward and hit the floor with a grunt, landing square on his ass.

Eira stood fast, chest heaving, face wet with tears, arms trembling.

She couldn’t even look at him.

Joel sat there for a second, stunned, blinking up at her. His breath caught in his throat.

The moment hung between them—unsteady, shivering with heat and hurt.

Eira didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. Her chest rose and fell like she’d just run a mile. Her jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

Joel, still on the floor, looked up slowly.

He opened his mouth—but nothing came out.

She stumbled back toward the kitchen table and braced her arm against it, leaning forward hard. Her head dropped, hair falling around her face like a curtain, hiding her crying that wouldn’t stop. Her shoulders shook with the effort of holding it all in—but the small, broken sobs still found their way out.

“Goddammit, Joel,” she said, voice cracking under the weight of it. “You can’t just come here.”

Joel didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched her—face stricken, hands now planted behind him as he leaned back on the floor.

He didn’t know whether to get up or stay down. Like her voice had knocked the air clean out of him.

He looked... disarmed.

Not just by her words, but by the sight of her: trembling, hunched over the table, hiding her face like it hurt to be seen.

Joel slowly got up with out moving towards Eira.

“Eira,” he said softly, “I’m sorry. Thought I heard somethin’—like you were hurt—and then I saw you on the floor and I just—”

“You can’t just—” Eira snapped, cutting him off, her voice shaking. Her hand gripped the edge of the table like she needed it to stay standing. “I don’t care. You… you can’t just come in here.”

So he stayed still. Watching.

Eira didn’t look at him.

Instead, she pushed off the table with unsteady arms and walked toward the sink. Her boots made small, scuffing sounds on the floor, but the room still felt too quiet—like it was holding its breath with her.

Joel’s gaze followed her, every step.

At the sink, she picked up the old metal dipper from the bucket. The water inside was cold—colder than she’d expected. She splashed it against her face anyway, sharp and clean. It shocked the heat from her skin, the grief, the rawness of everything still clawing at her ribs.

She grabbed the rag from the side hook, dipped it, wrung it out with shaking hands, and pressed it to her eyes.

The cool fabric met the torn skin under her lashes. It stung but she didn’t flinch.

Behind her, Joel hadn’t moved. Just stood there with his hands at his sides, unsure if he should leave or stay or speak or just dissolve into the floorboards.

The rag stayed pressed to her face for a long moment, her fingers trembling against the coarse fabric.

Joel shifted—just barely. She could feel it. Not a sound, not a word. Just presence. Like a weight in the air behind her.

Eira lowered the rag slowly. Droplets of water clung to her chin and jaw before falling to the floor. She didn’t wipe them.

She didn’t turn.

"Why are you here Joel?" she asked, voice hoarse.

Joel’s voice came low and careful. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t scare me.” Her words were fast, sharp. A reflex.

Silence followed. Not empty, not comfortable—tight and strained like a rope pulled just shy of breaking.

“I ain’t gonna touch you again,” Joel said eventually. “I just… saw you on the floor. Thought—hell, I didn’t think. I reacted.”

Her grip tightened on the edge of the sink.

She hated how soft his voice had gotten. Hated that it made something in her chest ache. Hated that he sounded like he meant it.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “For comin’ in like that. For touchin’ you when I shouldn’t’ve.”

Joel’s voice softened, drawl thickening. “Ain’t tryin’ to crowd you, or anything. I just didn’t wanna leave you if somethin’ was wrong.”

He turned slowly toward the door, each step deliberate.

When his hand touched the knob, Eira’s breath hitched again.

Joel didn’t move. Didn’t push.

“I’ll go if you want me to,” he added gently. “Ain’t here to make things worse.”

Eira stood at the sink, arms slack at her sides, the rag still clutched in one damp hand. She didn’t know what she wanted—only what she didn’t. She didn’t want to be seen like this, didn’t want Joel looking at her with pity, didn’t want to feel like a cracked thing trying to hold its own pieces together.

She felt weak. Small.

Alone.

Joel turned toward the door. His hand touched the knob.
He paused.

Not like he was waiting for something—just unsure. Caught between leaving and not wanting to.

Then his fingers began to tighten around the handle—

“I’m sorry,” Eira whispered.

Joel froze.

He turned. Slowly.

Eira was sliding down the cabinet, knees folding, shoulders caving in on themselves. Like the apology had cracked something open.

She didn’t look at him.

Joel let go of the door.

Stepped back.

But not close.

He sat down on the floor across from her, leaving space. Quiet, steady space.

“I ain’t goin’ anywhere,” he said, softly. “Not unless you tell me to.”

She kept her face turned away and just curled in tighter, resting her forehead against her knees, the damp rag now forgotten on the floor beside her.

The heat behind her eyes hadn’t left. But the tears were slower now, as if her body was too tired to push them out.

Joel didn’t fill the silence. He didn’t fidget or start talking to soothe the awkward. He just sat there, arms draped over his knees, boots flat on the floor, watching the lines of the tile like they had something to say.

Time passed like that—measured only by the sound of the wind outside and the soft drip of water from the edge of the sink.

“I ain’t good at this,” Joel said after a while. His voice was low, nearly lost in the quiet.

Eira lifted her head just a little.

He gave her a faint, dry smile—more apology than anything else.

“You don’t gotta talk. I’ll shut up. I just… figured you shouldn’t be alone.”

That part, he didn’t say with uncertainty. It was the only thing he seemed sure of.

Eira blinked slowly, lashes still wet. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

But her body eased just enough that her shoulders dropped from her ears. A breath came out of her, shaky but long.

Joel took that as permission. Not to move closer. Just to stay.

Chapter Text

Eira wiped at her face with the back of her sleeve, the damp fabric dragging across skin still hot from crying. Her breath hitched, then steadied—slow and sharp, like she was trying to sew herself shut from the inside out.

Her pride was clawing its way back up her throat now, bitter and bristling.

She couldn't meet Joel's eyes as he watched her from his postiton on the floor.

Goddammit .

She cursed herself in her head. For crying like that. For folding in front of him. For yelling. For shoving.

For letting him see her like this—raw and frayed and full of old ghosts.

But worse than that?

Worse was the part of her that felt sorry.

Not just for the outburst.

But for how she'd recoiled from his touch like he’d meant to hurt her.

He hadn’t. She knew that. Hell, he'd come in because he thought she was in trouble. Because he cared.

And I snapped at him. Like he was danger.

Eira clenched her jaw, rubbing at the mark on her wrist without thinking. It still stung, but that was the least of it.

She didn’t want Joel’s pity.

Didn’t want his worry.

Didn’t want him looking at her like she was something broken, barely holding together.

But he hadn’t done that either.

He hadn’t said a damn word. Just sat.

Just stayed.

She huffed. Not loud, not dramatic—just enough to feel like she’d taken some space back. Like she still had a say in her own skin.

Then she stretched her neck from side to side, slow and stiff, vertebrae clicking faintly in the quiet. Like if she loosened the tension in her body, the rest of her might follow. Like nonchalance could be faked well enough to become real.

It didn’t work.

But it gave her something to do. Gave her hands a place to rest—pressed flat to the floor now, cool tile grounding her as much as anything could.

Instead, she stared across the room—at the table, the guitar still half-pushed aside, strings coiled like wire traps on the wood.

“I'm sorry you had to see that. I lost it,” she muttered finally. Voice low. Flat. Like if she kept it steady, it wouldn’t count as vulnerability.

He nodded once, slow. Looked down at his hands.
“You don’t owe me anything,” he said. “Not explanations. Not apologies.”

A beat passed.
“But for what it’s worth... I ain’t thinkin’ any less of you.”

Eira let out a dry laugh. Bitter and short. She didn’t even try to hide the crack in it.

“Don’t know why you’d think of me at all.”

Joel shifted at that—rubbed the back of his neck like he’d been caught doing something foolish. His mouth opened, closed again.

“I mean, I just…” he started, gaze flicking away for a second. “You’ve been through a lot. And I figured… hell, anyone would’ve—”

He stopped. Grimaced a little, like he could hear how dumb it sounded coming out.

Then he looked at her. Really looked.

And his voice dropped quieter, steadier.

“Don’t reckon it matters why. I just do.”

No defense. No justification. Just truth.

Eira stared at him, uncertain what to do with that kind of answer.

Eira sighed and stood, brushing her hands down the sides of her legs like she could smooth away everything that had just happened. Joel rose too, quiet and measured, but didn’t step any closer. He just stood there, watching her with that same unreadable stillness.

She turned toward the cupboard and grabbed two mismatched glasses. One had a faint crack along the rim. The other still held the ghost of soap scum no matter how many times she scrubbed it.

From the high shelf above the stove, she pulled down a dusty bottle with a crooked cork jammed in the top. The liquid inside caught the light—amber-gold and thick. Her mother’s moonshine.

She didn’t hesitate. Poured two fingers into each glass, the smell curling sharp into the air between them.

Then she held one out to Joel, not looking up. Her voice was dry. Matter-of-fact.

“You want a drink? So you can forget seeing me like this?”

She gave a small, humorless huff and raised her own glass slightly. “God knows I’d like to.”

Joel blinked, startled. His hand hesitated before it closed around the glass she offered.

The moonshine caught the light like honey, but the tension between them was anything but sweet.

He stared down at the drink, then back at her.

“You’re somethin’ else,” he said finally, a little rough around the edges. “A man don’t know whether he’s bein’ invited in or warned off.”

Eira gave him a sideways look but didn’t argue.

He let out a breath, shook his head a little. “Hard as hell to keep up with you.”

She shrugged one shoulder, like that wasn’t news. “Wasn’t asking you to.”

“Didn’t say you were.”

Joel took a sip of the moonshine, winced slightly at the bite, then leaned his weight against the edge of the counter. The glass dangled from his fingers.

He glanced sideways at her. “So... wanna tell me what had you hyperventilatin’ on the floor?”

Eira didn’t answer right away. Just stared into her own glass like the amber liquid might rearrange itself into a reply she could give.

She gave a small snort through her nose. Not a laugh—more like an exhale that didn’t know what else to be.

“No,” she said finally, voice clipped. “Not really.”

Joel nodded slowly, like he’d expected as much. He didn’t push.

Eira tilted the glass toward her lips but didn’t drink. Just held it there, letting the sharp scent curl up into her nose. It was easier to focus on that than on how her hands were starting to tremble again.

“I’m fine,” she added after a moment, too fast, too practiced. “It was just... a day.”

Joel hummed. “Hell of a day, if it ends with you curled up on the floor.”

Eira shrugged, eyes fixed on her glass.
“If you really wanna know… I had a good day.”
She said it like it was a joke.
“Went shooting with Jesse. Rusty, sure, but I’ll get it back in no time. It was… honest to God, a good day.”

She paused, jaw tight.

“Then I came home. And I remembered I’m still me."

Joel let out a slow breath, rubbing his thumb over the rim of his glass.
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with you,” he said, real soft.

Eira didn’t answer, only scoffed in response.

She didn’t believe him, but she didn’t shut down. Didn’t walk away.

She took a sip—just enough to burn. Just enough to quiet the part of her that wanted to crawl back into herself and disappear.

Then she set the glass down with a quiet clink.

"Why are you here Joel?"

Joel cleared his throat, still not quite looking at her.

“Well... I thought you might need help with the strings I left on your door last night.”

Eira’s head snapped toward him, brows pulling tight. “That was you?”

Joel raised his hand a little, like he wasn’t sure if she was angry or surprised.
“Yeah. I wasn’t sure if you knew how to restring a guitar,” he said, voice low, almost sheepish. “But I knew you probably wouldn’t come knockin’ for help, so I figured…”

He trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid—just enough space between his words for her to fill in however she wanted.

“Haven’t I made it clear I don’t like feeling like I owe you something?”
She set her glass down harder than she meant to. “You can’t just do things like that. It makes me feel like I’ve gotta pay you back. Like I’m in your debt.”

Her voice cracked just a little at the end—not anger, not exactly. Just raw.

Joel didn’t flinch. He just nodded slowly, jaw tight, like he understood more than he wanted to.

“You don’t owe me nothin', Eira,” he said, quiet. “Ain’t why I did it.”

Eira sighed, ran a hand through her hair, then rubbed at the back of her neck like she wished she could take the edge off her own words.

“Okay,” she muttered. “Thanks. I mean it. But… please stop doin’ stuff like that.”

Her voice had lost its bite. Still guarded, still tense—but less like a blade, more like a boundary she was trying to draw without shaking.

Joel huffed a laugh, tipping his glass slightly like he was toasting to her boundary and sidestepping it in the same breath.

“Well,” he drawled, “can’t make any promises. Gotta be a good neighbor and all.”

Eira gave him a look—half exasperated, half resigned.

“You’re impossible,” she muttered.

“Been told that once or twice,” he said, almost smiling.

The silence settled between them—not uncomfortable, just the kind that hangs around when there’s more to say but no clue how to say it. A pause that wanted filling, even if neither of them knew with what.

Joel let his eyes wander the room, slow and thoughtful. Then he moved—easy, unhurried—toward the small sofa by the door. He sat down with a soft grunt, took another sip of moonshine, and leaned back like he wasn’t sure how long he’d be staying.

His eyes slid back to Eira, lips tugging just slightly.

“So. Supply runner now, huh?” he drawled, a little smirk edging into his voice. “Big swing, considerin’ last time I asked, you said you weren’t sure if leavin’ the porch was a good idea.”

He raised a brow, mock-casual. “That the same Eira talkin’ now, or you got a twin I don’t know about?”

Eira didn’t answer right away.

She could feel the real answer crawling up her throat—truth she wasn’t willing to say out loud. That she’d said no before because being out there with someone else made her chest go tight. That the nearness, the noise, the shared silence, all of it… made her feel like she couldn’t breathe.

But Joel didn’t need to know that.

So instead, she rolled her eyes and leaned back against the counter, her tone dry and dismissive.

“Listen, Maria said it was time for me to contribute,” she said. “And that’s what I chose.”

Simple. Clean. Nothing extra.

Joel huffed a quiet laugh, like he saw through her but didn’t feel like calling her on it. Not yet, anyway.

Joel tipped his glass slightly, studying her over the rim. “Mm,” he murmured. “Figure that’s the version you’re willin’ to give me.”

He didn’t press, just let it settle.

Then he leaned forward, setting his glass on the table with a soft clink and gave the arm of the couch a light pat.

“Alright. Let’s take a look at that guitar. Bring it over here.”

Eira eyed him, suspicious. She didn’t move right away. Just stood there holding the guitar, the strings, the old rusted pliers like they might bite.

Joel caught the look, raised his brows slightly, then leaned back into the couch like he had all the time in the world.

“Ain’t a trick, darlin’,” he said, voice low and easy. “Just tryin’ to help. No charge—"

“Don’t call me that,” Eira snapped, sharp—then the word trembled: “Ever.”

Joel blinked once. Not offended—just surprised. He nodded slowly, lips pressing together for a beat.

“Alright,” he said, adjusting his tone. “Fair enough.”

He didn’t apologize. Didn’t get defensive. Just let the correction stand and looked up at her again, patient.

“Still wanna show me the guitar?”

Eira stood still for a moment, weight shifting between her feet, jaw tight with hesitation. But the silence pressed in around her—quiet, steady, undemanding—and something in her eased, just enough.

She stepped forward and handed Joel the guitar.

He took it carefully, his hands practiced, sure. She half-expected him to get to work without a word, to spare her the trouble of pretending she wanted to learn.

Instead, he patted the cushion beside him with a look that was just this side of smug.

“You better come sit,” he said. “Ain’t doin’ this for you secondhand—since you don’t take kindly to bein’ in anybody’s debt.”

His drawl hung warm in the air, teasing but not unkind.

Eira narrowed her eyes, a flicker of resistance rising up instinctively—but then she sighed, long and quiet.

She sat.

Not close, but not far enough to pretend she wasn’t watching.

Joel gave her a small nod, fingers already moving to inspect the pegs and worn-out strings like he was handling something that mattered.

“Damn,” Joel muttered, turning the guitar over in his hands. “She’s been through it, huh? Could use a little love.”

Eira felt a lump rise in her throat.
“Is it that bad?” she muttered, eyes fixed on the guitar. “Goddammit—I gave Seth two bottles of this for it.”
She pointed to the amber liquid in her glass like it was proof of her own foolishness.

“Nah, nah—nothin’ like that. She just needs a little maintenance. Nothin’ we can’t fix.”

Eira rolled her eyes, ignoring Joel's we in his answere.

"Okay, so what does she need then?"

Joel leaned in, turning the guitar gently in his lap, thumb brushing along a scuffed patch near the bridge.

“Well,” he said, thoughtful, “the neck’s still straight, which is a miracle considerin’ how dry the air is around here. Frets ain’t too chewed up either. But these strings? They’re dead as dirt. Tuners are stiff, and she’s got some grime buildin’ up under the frets.”

He glanced up at her, the corner of his mouth twitching like he might smile but didn’t quite.

“Honestly? She’s better than I expected. Just needs cleanin’ up, new strings."

Joel’s thumb tapped lightly along the worn bridge, his voice trailing off a little like he was more focused on the guitar than the company.

“Wouldn’t hurt to change out a peg here and there,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “Might even switch out the saddle for a new one, if we had the right piece. Bone’d be best.”

Eira raised a brow. “You planning on goin’ out and hunting elk for it or somethin’?”

Joel snorted, gave a shrug. “Wouldn’t be the worst way to spend an afternoon.”

Eira shook her head, exhaling through her nose. “I just want her in working condition.”

Her voice wasn’t cold, exactly—just flat, final. Like she was drawing a line, even if she didn’t quite know why.

Joel gave a small nod, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Well, then,” he said, gently turning the guitar in his hands, “let’s get her there.”

Joel settled the guitar across his lap, motioned Eira a little closer. She hesitated, but leaned in just enough to see his hands better.

“Alright,” Joel murmured, reaching for the rusted pliers. “First thing’s first—we ease the tension. Strings this old? You don’t yank ’em off. You loosen ’em. Let ’em go slow.”

Eira gave a dry huff. “Yeah, I got that part,” she muttered, glancing down at her arm. The red line was still there—raised, tender.

Joel showed her how to work the tuning pegs, turning them slow, careful. “Feel that drag in the gears?” he said. “You listen for it. Feel it in your hand.”

The old strings groaned as they unwound, curling like brittle wire snakes.

“Careful not to let ’em spin out too fast,” he warned. “They’ll whip back and bite if you’re not paying attention.”

Once the strings were slack, he carefully clipped them near the bridge, catching the ends before they could spring. He laid them aside, then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small cloth.

“See all that grime?” he said, running the cloth along the neck and under the frets. “Dead skin, oil, sweat—all that builds up over time. Gums up the sound. You clean it regular, she’ll last longer.”

He wiped slow, deliberate, working in silence for a moment before speaking again.

“Don’t lean her against a wall by the neck—lays pressure on the joint.” He glanced at Eira. “Lay her flat or hang her right.”

Eira nodded once, watching him. Taking it in.

Then Joel reached for the new strings, uncoiling the first.

“Now pay attention,” he said, tone light but focused. “You know what each string is, right? The whole Elephants And Donkeys Grow Big Ears thing?”

Eira blinked at him. “What?”

Joel grinned faintly, holding the low E string up between his fingers. “It’s dumb, I know. But it sticks. E-A-D-G-B-E. Elephants And Donkeys Grow Big Ears.”

He shrugged. “It’s how I remembered ’em when I was first learnin’. You’ll pick it up.”

Eira let out a quiet chuckle, her mouth tugging into the faintest smile.
“That’s the one thing I actually do know. That—and how to sort of tune it.”

Joel gave a short laugh, low and warm in his chest. “Well hell, look at that—we’re startin’ off ahead.”

Eira smirked, the sound of her own small laugh still strange in her throat but not unwelcome. “Don’t get used to it.”

He glanced at her, brow raised. “Wasn’t plannin’ on it.”

She rolled her eyes but leaned in a little more, watching as his fingers deftly fed the first string through the peg, wrapping it tight and clean. His movements were unhurried, practiced—the kind of care you gave to things that mattered.

“Alright,” Joel said, tilting the neck gently so she could see. “You wanna keep the windin’ neat. Tension’s gotta be even or she’ll never hold pitch.”

He nudged the guitar toward her just a bit. “Next one’s yours.”

Eira hesitated, then took the string from him, her fingers brushing his for half a second. She looked down quickly, heart thudding for no good reason.

She fed the string through the hole, then paused.

“Like this?”

He nodded, his voice easy. “Good. Now wrap it clockwise. Just snug, don’t overdo it.”

Her hands weren’t steady. It wasn’t perfect—but it was enough.

He watched her work, quiet pride flickering behind his expression.

“See?” he said, voice soft. “Nothin’ to it.”

When all the strings were in place, Joel held the guitar steady in his lap, his hands moving with practiced ease. He turned each tuning peg slowly, head tilted as he listened close. The soft twang of tightening strings filled the room—fragile at first, then clearer, steadier.

“Almost there,” he murmured, more to the guitar than to Eira.

Eira watched him work, he plucked a note, adjusted, plucked again.

“Didn’t picture you being into guitars,” she said, eyebrow raised.

Joel nodded slowly, the sound of the tuning pegs clicking under his fingers.

“I played when I was younger,” he said, voice low. “Before I had… my daughter.”

His thumb brushed absently along the edge of the fretboard.

“Didn’t touch one for a long time after. Years. Just didn’t feel right.”

He paused, plucked a string again. The note rang clean this time.

“Then I came across a guitar a few years back. Beat-up thing, strings barely hangin’ on. But I picked it up anyway.”

He gave a small shrug, eyes still on the guitar in his lap.

“Guess my hands remembered what my head was tryin’ to forget.”

Chapter Text

He had a daughter.

Not Ellie. Before her.

Joel hadn’t said much. Just a low-voiced mention, wrapped in the kind of quiet that said don’t ask—but also I’m not hiding it.

It wasn’t the kind of thing people tossed out for small talk.
Which meant it wasn’t small.
Which meant it mattered.

And somehow, that mattered to her.

The guitar was cradled in his lap now, freshly strung, tuned low and warm. Joel’s hands moved without thought—thumb and fingers plucking out a melody so soft it barely stirred the air between them.

Eira sat beside him, one leg curled under, glass half-forgotten on the table. She didn’t recognize the tune, but it settled into the room like it belonged. Something slow, maybe sad.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t want to break the spell.

Joel’s brow was slightly furrowed, his eyes on the fretboard, but not really seeing it. His fingers knew the path already. The sound was quiet, steady, full of something he wasn’t saying.

And Eira listened.

She glanced at him, watching the way his hands moved, calloused fingertips coaxing out each note with care. She tried to picture him younger. Lighter. A guitar in his hands before the weight of the world sat on his back. Before loss turned his voice into gravel.

She could almost see it—Joel in his twenties, leaner maybe, but still rough around the edges. Sitting on a porch or by a fire, guitar resting easy in his lap, playing something low and lazy. Girls around him, leaning in close, laughing at something he said.

He was attractive—still was. Not in some polished, clean-cut way, but in that solid, steady kind of way.

Eira blinked the thought away, jaw tightening.

She didn’t need to be thinking about that.

As if to shake the thought loose—scrub it out before it settled—Eira stood abruptly, gathering both their glasses with one hand. The movement startled the quiet, but Joel didn’t look up. He just kept playing, fingers plucking out a melody that felt older than either of them.

She moved to the counter, poured another two fingers for herself. Hesitated. Then topped off his glass, too.

When she came back, she placed his drink on the coffee table with a quiet thunk, then sank into the couch beside him again—still with that deliberate inch of space between them.

Joel gave a small nod of thanks, not pausing in his picking. Just kept coaxing the tune from the strings like it lived in his bones.

Eira leaned back, glass in hand, eyes on the ceiling.

Joel kept playing, fingers moving lazily over the strings, letting the melody trail off into something softer, almost shapeless. Then he stopped, resting his hand gently on the neck of the guitar. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—just a quiet shift in air.

He glanced sideways at Eira, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“So,” he asked, voice low, easy, “what do you play?”

Eira blinked, caught off guard. Her shoulders stiffened slightly, and she looked down at her glass like it might shield her.

Her ears went warm.

“Oh,” she muttered, waving a hand like it wasn’t worth talking about. “Not much. I just... learned one song. I’m not very good.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” he said, voice mild.

She shot him a look. “How would you know?”

He didn’t answer right away—just took another sip of moonshine, eyes fixed somewhere just past her shoulder.

“Call it a hunch,” he said finally.

Then, with a nudge of his knee and the smallest twitch of a smirk:
“C’mon. Play me somethin’. Think of it as payment for the labor.”

Eira arched a brow. “I thought that’s what the free drinks were for.”

Joel tilted his glass, inspecting what little remained, then set it down with an exaggerated thunk.
“Well, hell. You drivin’ a hard bargain. Looks like I’m gettin’ underpaid either way.”

Eira let out a groan, tipping her head back against the couch like the ceiling might rescue her. “Fine,” she muttered, dragging the word out like it cost her something. Then, sharper—“But you’re not allowed to look at me.”

Joel blinked, a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Ain’t makin’ any promises on that.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I’m serious, Joel.”

He held up both hands in mock surrender, leaning back against the cushions. “Alright, alright. Won’t look. I swear.”

Eira shook her head, biting back a smile as she reached for the guitar. Her fingers were clumsy at first, hesitant as she shifted it into her lap.

Eira exhaled softly, like she had to clear the nerves out of her lungs before she could begin. Then her fingers found the strings—hesitant at first, searching for the shape of the chords—until the notes started to land.

"More Than Words."

She played slowly, cautiously. Her voice came soft, almost breathless, like the sound might crack if she didn’t hold it gently. There was nothing polished about it—no flourish, no drama. Just the song, and her, and the hush of the room around them.

Joel kept his eyes on the floor at first, like he said he would.

But when he glanced—just once—he saw her eyes were closed.

Not performing. Not showing off. Just… trying.

And it undid something in him.

He looked at her. Really looked.

Her brow was faintly drawn, lips shaping the words like they were heavier than the air. The lamplight caught the curve of her cheek, the shadows of her lashes. She swayed slightly with the rhythm, unconscious and unguarded, like the music was the only steady thing beneath her.

A beautiful young woman. In her own home. Singing a song about love—

Joel hadn’t planned for any of this.

Hadn’t planned on her voice cracking his chest open like that. Hadn’t planned on watching her like she was something fragile and fearless at the same time. Hadn’t planned on feeling—

He dropped his gaze again, jaw tightening just slightly. Like the shift might put everything back where it belonged.

But the melody kept going.

And Joel just sat there and listened.

Like it was the first honest thing he’d been given in a long, long time.

The final chord faded, soft as breath.
Eira opened her eyes.
Joel looked away—too late.

She pretended not to catch it. “See?” she muttered, forcing a shrug. “Told you it wasn’t much.”

Joel was quiet for a beat. Then:

“I liked it.”

His voice was low, almost casual—but not careless. There was weight behind it, quiet and real.

Eira blinked, caught off guard.

He didn’t look at her, not directly. Just plucked at the strings once, then let his hand rest there.

“You’re gettin’ there,” he added. “A little work on your timing, maybe. Grip looks stiff. But you got it.”

Eira gave a soft huff of disbelief, more reflex than response. But she didn’t argue.

Joel finally looked at her—just for a second.

“I mean it,” he said.

Eira leaned back against the couch, exhaling through her nose, the guitar still resting across her thighs. The strings vibrated faintly under her fingers like they hadn’t realized the song was over yet.

She didn’t say anything. Just blinked slow, her gaze drifting toward the window where moonlight pressed soft against the glass. The air between them had gone still again—easy now, instead of tense.

Joel didn’t move either. He just watched her, quiet.

Then she yawned. Tried to hide it behind the back of her hand, but didn’t quite manage. Her posture slouched, more melted than seated, and the way she blinked—slow and uneven—said the moonshine was starting to show its teeth.

She reached lazily for her glass, took one last sip, then made a face.

“Ugh,” she muttered. “Okay, that one hit back.”

Joel chuckled under his breath. “Moonshine’ll do that.”

Eira nodded absently, her head tipping back against the cushion. Her eyelids dipped low, slow and heavy, like gravity was having more say in the matter now. She wasn’t drunk, not really—but the edges had gone soft. Words slower. Movements looser.

Eira stayed quiet for a beat, letting the silence settle again. Her eyes were nearly closed now, lashes brushing her cheeks. But she wasn’t fully gone—not yet.

“Play me something?” she asked softly, the words a little slurred, like her mouth was finally catching up to how tired she felt.

Joel turned his head slightly, watching her through the corner of his eye. “You’re barely stayin’ upright.”

“I know,” she murmured, voice feather-light. “Don’t care. Just... one more song.”

Joel leaned back, rubbing a hand over his jaw. For a moment, he didn’t answer. Then he reached for the guitar without a word, easing it back into his lap.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “But you fall asleep, I’m takin’ that as a compliment.”

Eira gave a lazy, lopsided grin and let her head tip back against the cushion again, eyes closed now for real. “Sure.”

Joel adjusted the tuning slightly, then let his fingers settle into the strings.

Joel’s fingers hovered over the strings, thoughtful. Then he started picking something soft—slow and measured. The opening chords of Far Away by José González unfurled into the room.

Eira leaned her head back against the couch with a quiet sigh, her eyes fluttering half-shut. She gave a soft, approving hum—just something small that told him to keep going.

Joel caught it from the corner of his eye. He smiled. Barely there. But it softened the edges of his face as he played on, letting the melody carry him.

His voice followed—quiet and warm:

“Far away, this ship has taken me far away…”

It wasn’t polished. But it didn’t need to be. It felt like something unwrapped, something honest.

He got lost in it for a while—lost in the rhythm, in the weight of the lyrics, in the simple hush that filled the space between chords.

So lost, he barely noticed how Eira’s breathing had slowed.

Her head tilted slightly.

Then a little more.

Until finally, it came to rest against his shoulder.

Joel froze.

The final chord faded into silence as he sat there, staring at the dark window across the room, Eira asleep beside him.

Her hair brushed against his arm. Her breath was warm where it ghosted the side of his neck. And that’s when he caught it—her scent.

Soft. Barely there. A little musky from the long day, the heat of the room, the weight of everything she’d carried—but beneath that, something faintly floral. Lilac, maybe. Not perfume, exactly. Just… something hers.

He just let her be there.

Her presence. Her trust. The way her guard had dropped—if only because sleep had taken it from her.

Joel sat still, the guitar resting quiet now in his lap.

He should wake her.

He knew that.

She’d hate this in the morning—waking up to find herself leaning against him like they were something soft, something close. She’d pull back. Put up walls. Maybe regret the whole damn night.

It wasn’t fair to her.

But still, he didn’t move.

Didn’t want to.

Because in this moment, nothing was demanded of him. No expectations. No masks. Just her, warm and asleep beside him, the weight of her head like an anchor in a world that kept drifting off its moorings.

His eyes flicked to the firelight catching in her hair, to the curve of her fingers curled against her thigh.

He swallowed.

Low in his chest, something ached. Something old and lonely and greedy for this kind of stillness.

But she’d hate it if he let it last too long.

"Just another minute," he told himself, barely a whisper in his head. "Just one more."

But minutes didn’t behave, not when the room was this quiet, and the fire this warm, and the ache in his chest this tired.

His body, stubborn as it was, was older now. Slower. He’d been nursing that moonshine right along with her, hadn’t he?

His head tilted back against the wall behind the couch.

His fingers rested over the strings, unmoving.

He meant to wake her. Truly, he did.

Just… after he closed his eyes. For a second.

The weight of her beside him was comforting, grounding—like being trusted in a way that didn’t need words. Like being allowed to stay.

And slowly, sleep began to slip its fingers around him too.

His breathing evened. His hand relaxed on the neck of the guitar.

The fire cracked softly once.

And the cabin slipped into quiet.

Two glasses on the table.

One guitar between them.

And Joel and Eira—leaned gently against each other, asleep—until morning, when light would find them there, still together.

Outside, wind brushed the windows. Inside, silence held its breath.

Until—

Eira twitched.

It started small. A muscle in her jaw. A shiver through her fingers.

Then her body tensed. Shoulders drawing in like she was bracing against something invisible. Her brows furrowed, and her breath turned shallow.

Her lips moved, soundless.

Then—

“No.”

It came out hoarse. Barely audible.

Joel stirred beside her, brow twitching as he slowly blinked awake, instinct tugging at the edge of sleep—but not enough, not yet.

Eira flinched.

Still asleep, but sinking. Pulled under.

Sunlight filtered through the pines, golden and warm, casting dappled shadows across the forest floor.

Eira laughed as she ducked behind a tree, her boots thudding softly against moss and dirt. Joel’s voice followed after her, playful and teasing.

“Where you think you’re goin’, huh?” he called, the smile in his voice unmistakable.

She darted left, weaving between the trees, her heart pounding—not with fear, but something light. The kind of breathlessness she’d forgotten how to enjoy.

Behind her, branches snapped and Joel gave a dramatic groan. “Alright, alright—you got a head start, but I’m catchin’ up now.”

“Not a chance,” Eira shouted back, grinning over her shoulder.

But he was close. She could hear him. Feel him.

And she didn’t want him to stop chasing her.

The woods didn’t feel like the real world. They felt like a memory from someone else’s life—a softer place where danger didn’t come knocking, where trust was allowed.

She slipped down a slope, laughing as she caught herself against a tree trunk. Joel was right behind her now, boots crunching leaves.

“Gotcha!” he said.

She squealed as he grabbed her arm—not rough, just enough to pull her in—and they tumbled, tangled together, down onto the soft grass. The world spun, leaves blurring overhead as they rolled, limbs awkward and breathless, until finally—

Joel ended up above her.

He was smiling. His hand braced against the ground beside her head. Their chests rose and fell in unison.

Eira’s laughter softened into a shaky, nervous breath. The warmth in her chest was new. Dangerous. She felt her lips part slightly.

“Caught you,” he murmured.

But something in his voice was off.

The words landed wrong—too sharp at the edges.

Eira blinked.

Joel’s face was still above hers, smiling—but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. They’d gone still. Empty.

The warmth in the air thinned. Something inside her dropped.

She swallowed. “Joel?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he leaned in, voice low—too low.

“You’re always easy when you’re scared.”

It wasn’t Joel’s voice.

It was his.

Adriel Heller.

A.H.

Eira’s stomach dropped. Her limbs locked up.

Joel’s face was still there—but it was changing.

The warmth vanished from his eyes, replaced by something pale and watching. The kind of stare that didn’t blink, didn’t soften. His brow twisted into a familiar furrow—not confusion, but calculation. His skin paled. His nose bent wrong. A scar bloomed across his brow.

No longer Joel.

It was him.

Adriel.

Eira’s breath hitched. She tried to move, but the grass gripped her like hands.

“Come on now darlin',” he said, voice flat as ever. “Be good girl for me.”

His fingers dug into her arms—cold, unyielding. Her body wouldn’t respond.

Eira opened her mouth to scream, to shove, to fight—but all that came out was a choked, broken noise.

The trees leaned in. The sky dimmed. Her vision blurred.

And Adriel just watched her.

Like he'd done countless times before.

Eira shot upright on the couch, a ragged gasp tearing from her throat. Her chest heaved, arms trembling. Her skin was clammy, cold sweat dampening her back and collarbone.

The fire was low again. The room was dark.

Joel stirred beside her, blinking awake. “Eira—?”

She pushed off the couch in an instant, stumbling back. Her breath came fast and uneven as she braced herself against the edge of the counter, fingers gripping the wood like it was the only solid thing left in the world.

Joel stood slowly. Didn’t move toward her. “It’s alright. It’s just me.”

She couldn’t look at him.

Couldn’t hear that voice and not remember.

The dream clung to her like smoke.

Joel’s jaw tightened. He didn’t ask. Just waited.

Eira swallowed hard, her shoulders shaking.

“I’m fine,” she rasped. “It was just a dream.”

But even as the words left her mouth, her stomach turned.

Her vision tilted—walls too close, light too sharp—and then she was moving, fast and stumbling, one hand catching on the edge of the counter as she lurched toward the bathroom.

Joel didn’t follow.

Didn’t say a word.

The door banged shut behind her, and a moment later came the sound of retching—muffled but unmistakable.

Joel stood in the living room, hands at his sides, useless.

He hesitated. Then stepped forward, boots careful on the wood, and raised a knuckle to the door.

A quiet knock.

“You need any help?”

Silence.

Then the wet, broken sound of her trying to breathe through it. Another heave. A sob swallowed too fast.

He leaned his forehead gently against the frame.

Still nothing.

Then—barely above a whisper, cracked and raw:

“Go away.”

Joel didn’t move.

Didn’t argue.

Just stood there a moment longer, jaw tight, hands fisted at his sides.

“Alright,” he said, voice low. “I’ll be right outside.”

Then he turned, walked back to the couch, and sat down.

He didn’t pick up the guitar. Didn’t reach for his drink.

He just waited. Quiet. Solid.

Because it was all he could do.