Day 22 — Settling In

The cabin’s quiet now. The kind of quiet that makes your ears ring. We’ve been here a week. The air feels thicker, like the woods are holding their breath.

She spends mornings by the creek collecting smooth stones. She says she’s building something. I don’t ask what.

At night, we sit by the fire without talking. The silence between us isn’t cold anymore. It’s tired.

Day 25 — The Creek

I saw what she’s been building. A ring of river stones, perfect circle. Inside, she carved one word into the dirt: His.

When she noticed me watching, she said, “It’s not for you to touch.” Her voice was steady, but her hands trembled.

That night she stayed outside long after dark. When she came back, she smelled like smoke and rain.

Day 27 — The Truth We Don’t Say

The dream came again. New York. The sound of claws on concrete. We were scavenging. He was small, carrying a can he’d found, proud of himself. Then the noise—wet, sharp, fast. The ghoul hit him before I could raise the gun.

I fired twice. Missed the first time. The second shot went through both of them.

When I reached her, she was holding him, rocking, whispering, “He’s warm. He’s still warm.”

We buried him behind a church two days later. She dug with her hands until they bled.

Every swing of her machete since then has been for him.

Day 29 — The Memorial

She finished it today. The stones stand waist-high, wildflowers planted around the base. She made a small wooden carving—rough, but careful—and set it on top.

We stood together for a long time without speaking. Then she reached for my hand. The wind moved through the trees, soft and warm, like forgiveness.