Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Act 1 - The Road Out of Grief

The morning air stung Ellie’s cheeks as she guided Ember down the patrol path, the horse’s hooves tapping softly in the silence. Jackson was still—peaceful, some might say. But to Ellie, the quiet pressed in like a bruise. Her memories hung in the mist curling through the trees, heavy, cold, and inescapable.

She adjusted her grip on the reins, her fingers—what was left of them—feeling stiff in the chill. It had been months since her return to Jackson, and yet it felt like no time at all. The landscape hadn’t changed, the routine of patrols hadn’t changed, but Ellie had. She couldn’t forget the moment she crossed back through those gates after Santa Barbara, her body aching from the fight, but her heart heavier with something she couldn’t name.

The first faces she’d seen were familiar: Maria’s sharp, knowing eyes watching her from a distance, and Jesse’s parents, quiet and respectful as they tended to their duties. But there had been no warmth, no welcome. Just the stark reminder that Jesse wasn’t there, that Joel wasn’t there, and that the people she cared about had suffered while she was gone.

Her mind wandered back to that day, the sight of Jackson’s gates swinging open after so long, her return marked by exhaustion and the feeling of being more of a stranger than a survivor. She had expected something, though she wasn’t sure what. Maybe Dina would be there, waiting with JJ, ready to hold her, forgive her for leaving. But instead, she had been met with silence—Jackson’s quiet acceptance of her presence, but nothing more.

Dina hadn’t come out to greet her.

Ellie shook her head, trying to push the thought away, but it lingered like a sore she couldn’t stop picking at. The ride into town had felt like a march of shame, her every step weighed down by the burden of the choices she’d made. Every building, every person she passed seemed to stare through her, as though they could see the blood on her hands, the vengeance she’d failed to complete.

She had come back different—older, heavier, quieter. The girl who’d left to chase vengeance hadn’t made it home.

Ember huffed beneath her. Ellie blinked back to the present. The woods ahead were empty, just trees and wind. No raiders. No infected. Just Jackson’s peace, echoing too loudly in her ears.

Her grip tightened on the reins. This quiet—the kind most people prayed for—unraveled her.

The silence dragged her backward, to that first night home. The farmhouse had been still. Toys untouched. Joel’s guitar by the window. Everything familiar, yet hollow. Like walking into a dream someone else had left behind.

She hadn’t touched the guitar. She didn’t deserve to.

The people of Jackson hadn’t asked. But they didn’t need to. Maria’s stare, Jesse’s parents’ distance—it was all there in their eyes. They knew what she’d left behind. And so did she.

A sudden rustle. Ellie reached for her rifle without thinking. Her body still knew what to do, even if the world had quieted.

Nothing. Just the wind.

Still, her pulse stayed high. The danger was gone. But her body never really believed it.

But Jackson wasn’t like that anymore. Not for most people. For them, it was safe. For them, life had returned to some semblance of normal. And yet, for Ellie, normal felt like a distant memory, something unreachable.

She looked down at her hand, her left hand—the one missing two fingers—and flexed it slightly. The scars were healing, but the damage was permanent. Just like everything else.

The horse shifted beneath her, and Ellie realized she had been sitting there, lost in thought, for too long. She urged Ember forward again, forcing herself to focus on the task at hand. The quiet patrol, the familiar route, the life she was trying to fit back into.

But no matter how hard she tried, the return to normal life still felt like a dream, like something that didn’t quite belong to her anymore. And every day, she wondered if it ever would again.

___

After completing her patrol and getting Ember back to the stables, Ellie went back to the center of the city. She tugged at the sleeves of her jacket as she approached Jackson’s town hall, the familiar log-built structure looming ahead. It had been months since her return, and though life in Jackson had become a part of her daily routine, moments like this—heading to meet Maria—still stirred something uncomfortable in her chest.

Today’s meeting was about some mundane task, nothing like the tension-filled first conversation they’d had. But as Ellie pushed open the heavy wooden door, her thoughts drifted back to that first real talk with Maria—the one that had set the tone for their evolving relationship.

She still remembered that first meeting.

Maria had been sitting behind her desk, hands folded, eyes fixed on the papers in front of her. She didn’t look up when Ellie walked in. No greeting. No welcome. Just silence.

Ellie had stood awkwardly, hands in her jacket pockets, the air between them brittle with everything unsaid.

Then Maria spoke—quietly, but with the weight of a hammer.

“I’m not going to pretend I understand why you went after her,” she said. “But I’ve lost too much because of it.”

Ellie swallowed hard but said nothing. What could she offer? An apology wouldn’t bring Jesse back. Wouldn’t make Tommy whole again.

“I loved Joel too,” Maria went on, voice low but steady. “But this wasn’t about him. This was about revenge. About selfishness.”

That one hit.

Ellie had opened her mouth. Closed it again. Her stomach twisted, shame rising like bile.

Then Maria’s voice softened, not out of pity—out of truth.

“You left Dina. You left JJ. You left your family behind. And now, you have to live with that.”

That was it. No shouting. No threats. Just facts. The kind that didn’t fade.

Maria hadn’t shunned her after that day. If anything, she had kept Ellie closer. Not in an overt way, but with a subtle protectiveness that Ellie hadn’t noticed at first. Every new task Maria assigned her seemed to carry less of the tension from that initial talk. Ellie’s patrols became more frequent, Maria’s presence less imposing, and gradually, the conversations that had once been laced with anger turned into discussions about the community, about how Ellie could help.

The memory of one of those more recent talks stood out in her mind as she reached the door to Maria’s office today.

A few months ago, Maria had asked Ellie to sit down after a patrol debrief, the tiredness in her face softened with something Ellie couldn’t quite place.

“You’ve been doing good work, Ellie,” Maria had said, her voice steady. “I’m not going to pretend everything’s been easy for you—hell, for any of us—but you’re trying. And that’s more than a lot of people would do.”

It had been one of the first times since returning that Ellie had felt… seen. Not as the broken girl who had chased vengeance, but as someone trying to find her place in the world again.

And now, here she was, months later, coming to see Maria for something as simple as checking patrol routes, but it didn’t feel like the same office or the same relationship anymore. There was a quiet understanding between them now, something that had been built slowly and without words. Maria’s anger had given way to a kind of maternal protectiveness, though Ellie hadn’t quite allowed herself to fully recognize it.

The door creaked as Ellie pushed it open, and there was Maria, sitting at her desk as usual, her eyes lifting to meet Ellie’s. This time, there was no cold stare, no simmering anger—just the tired but warm gaze of someone who had seen too much but was still standing.

“Ellie,” Maria said, offering a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Thanks for coming.”

Ellie nodded, stepping inside, the tension in her shoulders easing just a little. For all the guilt and anger that had lingered between them in the beginning, Maria had become something Ellie hadn’t realized she needed—a guiding presence, firm but fair, and maybe even, in a way Ellie hadn’t expected, a figure she could lean on.

She still wasn’t sure what to call it. Friendship, maybe. But as she sat down across from Maria, a thought flickered in the back of her mind: family.

___

The town hall buzzed with quiet activity as Ellie stepped into the main hall, the smell of roasting vegetables and simmering stew already filling the air. It was the weekly communal dinner, an event that had grown in importance over the last few months, serving as a time for Jackson’s residents to come together, share food, and strengthen the bonds of their small community. For Ellie, the dinners had always felt a little off—too close, too communal for her taste—but Dina had convinced her that it was worth being part of.

Maria had asked Dina earlier in the week to help with the dinner, a request that was hardly surprising given Dina’s knack for bringing people together. Dina, always eager to contribute, had agreed, deciding that she’d make the stew with Robin, Jesse’s mother. The two had bonded over their shared loss, and the act of cooking together had become something of a ritual for them, one that helped ease the weight of grief.

When Maria had asked Ellie to contribute as well, she’d hesitated, unsure of where she fit in the social dynamic of the community these days. But Dina, sensing her reluctance, had chimed in, her voice light and teasing: “Ellie can help me serve the stew. That way, I won’t be the one spilling everything.”

Ellie hadn’t argued. She rarely did when Dina asked her for something, especially when it came with that playful glint in her eyes.

Now, as Ellie moved through the hall, her thoughts wandered back to the day she had returned to Jackson—back to the moment she saw Dina for the first time after leaving her and JJ behind. It was a memory that played out in fragments, scattered like the broken pieces of her own heart.

She remembered the weight of her feet on the ground as she had walked through Jackson’s gates. The air had felt thick with tension, though the town itself was quiet, just as it always had been. But everything had felt different to her—the familiar faces that once brought her comfort now seemed distant, like echoes of a past she couldn’t return to.

Dina hadn’t been there to greet her. Ellie hadn’t expected her to be, not after the way she’d left things, but a part of her had hoped. Hope—that was the cruelest part of it all.

She had gone to their house, the one they’d shared on the outskirts of Jackson, her heart pounding in her chest. The door had felt heavy as she pushed it open, the creak of the hinges slicing through the stillness inside. It had been empty. Not just physically, but emotionally. The warmth that had once filled their home had vanished, leaving behind only traces of a life that had moved on without her.

Toys scattered on the floor. JJ’s laughter no longer echoing through the rooms. Dina’s jacket hanging by the door, untouched. The weight of it had hit Ellie like a punch to the gut.

She had stood there, staring at the remnants of the life she’d abandoned, her body frozen, unsure of what to do next. The silence had been unbearable, but the absence of Dina’s presence was worse. She had walked through the house, room by room, her footsteps echoing in the empty space, every step a reminder of what she had lost.

When she had finally seen Dina again, it wasn’t in the privacy of their home. It had been in the town square, in front of others. Dina had been holding JJ, her smile strained but still there, still the same. She hadn’t said much, hadn’t needed to. Her eyes had told Ellie everything—she was hurt, but she was still here. Not for Ellie, not yet, but for JJ and the life they’d built.

The memory twisted in Ellie’s chest, and she blinked, shaking off the thoughts as she entered the kitchen area where Dina was helping Robin. The older woman was chopping vegetables with practiced efficiency, her movements steady and methodical. Dina stood beside her, stirring the large pot of stew, her sleeves rolled up, her hair tied back in a loose ponytail.

Dina looked up as Ellie approached, a soft smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Hey, you made it.”

Ellie nodded, trying to muster a smile of her own. “Yeah, I’m here.”

Robin glanced up, her expression warm but laced with the same sorrow that had never quite left her eyes since Jesse’s death. “Ellie, good to see you,” she said, offering a small nod. “Dina’s making sure I don’t burn the stew.”

Dina chuckled. “We’ll see how that goes. You might want to keep an eye on me too, Ellie.”

Ellie couldn’t help the slight grin that crept onto her face at Dina’s teasing.It was easy to pretend, especially when others were watching.

Dina would smile, throw an arm around Ellie’s shoulder, brush her hand against hers as they served stew side by side. From the outside, they still looked like them—like the couple everyone remembered. Together.

But behind closed doors, those touches vanished.

Their intimacy had become rare, fleeting. They hadn’t shared more than a few brief embraces, a handful of quiet kisses that barely made it through the night. There was no real warmth to cling to, no foundation to rebuild on. Ellie felt like an empty shell, going through the motions, pretending the love she still had for Dina could fix what had been shattered.

She tried to keep calm, to push down the sick feeling that crawled up her throat every time Dina’s public affection felt performative, but it gnawed at her constantly. She loved Dina—God, she still loved her—but the distance between them had only grown since she’d returned. Each day, it felt like they were drifting further apart, like the life Ellie had tried so hard to rebuild was crumbling around her.

Maria’s voice cut through her thoughts. “Ellie, can you grab the bowls from the shelf? We’re almost ready to start serving.”

Ellie blinked, shaking herself out of her spiral. “Yeah, sure.” She moved to the cabinet, pulling down the bowls with mechanical precision, her mind still stuck in the past, stuck in the moments she couldn’t get back.

She glanced over at Dina, who was wiping her hands on a towel, chatting easily with Robin. Dina’s laughter rang out again, and Ellie felt that familiar twist in her gut. Dina looked happy—so damn happy—in front of everyone else. But behind closed doors, that happiness vanished, replaced with the silence that had haunted their relationship since her return.

“Ellie, you okay?” Dina’s voice pulled her back to the present, her gaze soft as she glanced over.

Ellie forced a small smile, a well-practiced move by now. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she lied, her heart heavy with the weight of everything unsaid between them.

Dina’s eyes lingered on her for a moment longer, and for a second, Ellie thought she might say something real, something that cut through the walls they had built between them. But instead, Dina just nodded, her smile returning as she turned back to Robin.

Ellie carried the bowls to the table, setting them down and glancing up at Maria. The older woman gave her a brief nod, and Ellie returned it, grateful for the small tasks that kept her busy, kept her from thinking too hard about how broken everything felt.

The dinner itself had become a big deal in Jackson, a weekly event that drew the community together, where they shared food, stories, and a sense of normalcy. Ellie hadn’t been part of it much before, but since returning, Maria had made sure she was involved. Whether it was to keep her integrated into the community or to keep an eye on her, Ellie wasn’t sure. But it kept her busy, and that was something.

As they started ladling stew into the bowls, Ellie and Dina stood side by side, serving their neighbors. The smiles they exchanged were genuine enough on the surface, but Ellie could feel the tension simmering just beneath. Every now and then, Dina would reach over, brushing her hand against Ellie’s as if to keep up appearances, as if to remind people that they were still a unit.

And Ellie would smile back, as she always did, swallowing the sickness that threatened to rise in her chest.

The stew pot emptied slowly, the bowls handed out to familiar faces who greeted them with nods and kind words. To the community, nothing was wrong. To everyone else, Dina and Ellie were fine. Maybe even better than fine.

But Ellie knew better. The cracks were still there, deeper than ever.

As the last bowl was served and the crowd started to gather at the long tables, Ellie stood back for a moment, watching the people around her. They were laughing, eating, sharing stories of patrols and hunts. It should have felt comforting, being part of something so familiar, so normal.

But all Ellie could think about was the silence that awaited her once the dinner was over. The quiet that stretched between her and Dina like a canyon, growing wider with each passing day. She didn’t know how to close the gap. And part of her was terrified that she never would.

As Ellie stood back, watching the people of Jackson gather around the tables, their laughter and conversation filling the hall, her thoughts drifted, retreating inward to a quieter time. She needed something, anything, to hold on to—some memory, some moment that would remind her that maybe there was still hope for her and Dina.

Her mind wandered to one of the rare nights they had spent together, a few weeks after she had returned. It had been quiet then too, just the two of them sitting on the couch, the warmth of the fire casting a soft glow around the room. JJ had already been asleep, his soft breaths the only sound in the house aside from the crackling fire.

Dina had sat beside her, close but not too close, the distance between them a reminder of how far they still had to go. Ellie remembered the tension that had weighed on her chest, the uncertainty of what to say, of how to bridge the gap that had grown between them. But then, without a word, Dina had leaned over and rested her head on Ellie’s shoulder.

It had been such a small thing, barely even a touch, but it had felt monumental. Ellie’s breath had caught in her throat, her heart racing at the simple, quiet connection. It wasn’t a kiss, it wasn’t an embrace, but it was something—something real.
They hadn’t said much that night, just sat together, their bodies warm and close in the soft light of the fire. Eventually, Dina had lifted her head and turned toward Ellie, her eyes soft but tired. She had leaned in, her lips brushing against Ellie’s in a kiss so gentle it felt fragile, like it might break at any moment.

Ellie had kissed her back, slowly, carefully, as if afraid to push too far. But for that moment, it had been enough. Enough to make her believe that maybe, just maybe, there was still something left between them. Something worth fighting for.

The kiss hadn’t lasted long, and neither had the quiet warmth that followed. Dina had pulled away, her gaze distant, and after a brief exchange of murmured goodnights, they had gone to bed—separately. But that kiss, brief as it was, had stayed with Ellie. It was one of the few moments in the months since her return that had made her believe she hadn’t lost everything.

That memory had become a touchstone for Ellie, something she returned to when the weight of the silence between them became too much to bear. She told herself that the softness in Dina’s eyes that night, the way her lips had felt against hers, meant something. Maybe it wasn’t enough to fix everything, but it was a start.

Now, as she stood in the busy hall, the noise of the communal dinner swirling around her, Ellie clung to that memory like a lifeline. She could still feel the ghost of that kiss, the way Dina had pressed her head against her shoulder, the warmth of her body beside hers. Maybe things weren’t perfect—hell, they were far from it—but that memory reminded her that there had been moments of closeness. Moments that gave her hope, even if they were few and far between.

She looked over at Dina, who was talking with Robin, her smile bright and effortless. From a distance, Dina seemed okay, happy even. And in public, that happiness seemed real, even if Ellie knew better. But maybe—just maybe—that public smile wasn’t entirely fake. Maybe there was still a part of Dina that wanted to find their way back to each other, even if she couldn’t show it fully.

Ellie wanted to believe that. She needed to believe that. Because without that belief, without the memory of that night, all she had left was the silence and the distance.

The dinner went on, people eating and laughing, and Ellie moved through the crowd, helping where she could, her mind never straying too far from Dina. The memory of that kiss, of that quiet night, stayed with her, a small flame of hope flickering in the back of her mind.

Maybe there was still a chance. Maybe she could still find her way back to Dina.

As the noise of the hall faded and the bowls clinked into washbins, Ellie felt Dina’s shoulder brush hers. Their hands met briefly on the same plate. Neither pulled away.

Dina glanced at her—just a flicker, soft and unsure—and something shifted. A thread tugged loose inside Ellie’s chest.

Before she could think, before she could doubt, Ellie leaned in and whispered, “Hey… want to build a fire in the backyard later? Just us?”

Dina blinked, startled by the question, then slowly smiled. It was real. It reached her eyes. “I’d like that.”

Ellie exhaled for the first time all day.

It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t healing.
But maybe it was a place to start.

Chapter Text

The square was lively, filled with laughter and music, the air rich with the smells of cooked food and the earthy scent of autumn. After their turn volunteering at the community dinner, Ellie felt a pull towards something quieter, more secluded. It was invigorating but overwhelming, and she sensed Dina felt the same based on the small, tired smiles she offered as they cleaned up.

As they finished cleaning up, Ellie caught Dina’s eye. ‘Hey, want to light a small campfire in the backyard?’ Her voice wavered with quiet hope.

Dina’s eyes lit up, surprising Ellie with a kind of warmth she thought was gone. “I’d love that,” she responded, her voice tinged with surprise and delight at the suggestion. “It sounds perfect.”

As the dinner wound down, Dina pulled Robin aside. "Would you and Hiro mind keeping JJ tonight? Ellie and I… we need a moment." Her tone was casual, but the meaning wasn’t lost.

Ellie’s heart raced. Fingers twitched. We’d be alone, she thought, stunned by the thought. It had been so long—no JJ, no distractions, no excuses. Just the two of them. And that terrified her.

Robin nodded. “Of course. You two deserve a night off.” Dina smiled at Ellie—warm and grounding. Ellie forced herself to return it, though nerves twisted beneath her skin.

She’d suggested the campfire—a small gesture to reconnect. But now, knowing they'd be alone, her nerves sparked. Dina’s smile had lit a flicker of hope, but underneath, Ellie felt like she was standing on a cliff’s edge. What would happen when the silence fell between them? Part of her ached for that closeness—but another part trembled, afraid it wouldn’t be enough. That she wouldn’t be.

They walked home side by side, the sun dipping behind them, casting long strokes of pink and orange across the sky. The air was crisp. Ellie thought of reaching for Dina’s hand, but seeing hers tucked into her jacket, she mirrored her instead.

Arriving in their backyard, Ellie grabbed firewood from the stack near the shed while Dina disappeared inside, returning with matches and a couple of blankets. Working together with practiced ease, they built a small but sturdy fire pit using a few old bricks circled neatly in a cleared part of their yard.

Soon, a fire crackled in the pit, its light flickering against the darkening sky, casting a warm glow over their faces. Ellie and Dina settled down on one of the blankets spread out a safe distance from the flames. The world around them quieted to just the sounds of the fire’s crackle and the distant calls of night birds.

Dina seemed to sense Ellie's hesitation, because as they sat beside their campfire, she scooted closer to her under one shared blanket, resting her head on Ellie’s shoulder. “It’s nice… peaceful,” Dina murmured, her breath warm against Ellie’s neck. “I missed this—missed us being us.”

Ellie swallowed hard, her throat tight. She had missed it too, more than she could put into words. But now, sitting here with Dina so close, the warmth of her body pressed against her, Ellie couldn’t help but wonder—will this be enough to fix anything?

The fire’s warmth enveloped them, a comforting contrast to the cool night air. As the flames danced, their shadows mingled on the ground, a silent testament to their slowly reconnecting lives. Ellie turned to look at Dina, the firelight illuminating her features, softening the lines of exhaustion and worry that had become all too common.

Ellie reached out, her hand hesitantly brushing a strand of hair from Dina’s face. “I did too. More than I realized,” she admitted softly, her voice barely above a whisper. The simplicity of the moment, the quiet intimacy, felt like a balm to her often restless spirit.

Dina turned to face Ellie, her hand coming up to gently touch Ellie’s cheek. “Let’s not wait so long to do this again,” she whispered back, her eyes reflecting the firelight, deep and emotive.

Their gaze held, a silent conversation passing between them, one of apologies, hopes, and tentative plans for more moments like this. Gradually, Dina leaned in, closing the small distance between them, her lips meeting Ellie’s in a kiss that was tender and lingering, a kiss that spoke of rekindled connection and mutual longing.

The night deepened around them, the fire continuing to crackle, its warm light a protective bubble in the encroaching darkness. For a few precious minutes, the world outside their firelit circle ceased to exist, allowing them to explore the depths of their renewed bond, finding comfort and hope in the shared warmth and the promise of new beginnings.

As Dina’s lips met Ellie’s, there was a softness, a deliberateness that Ellie hadn’t felt in a long time. It was familiar yet infused with a new depth of emotion that stirred something profound within her. The kiss deepened, not out of habit or memory, but from a place of genuine rediscovery and longing.

Ellie felt a tremor pass through her, a response to the subtle yet unmistakable shift in Dina’s approach. It wasn’t just the tenderness of the kiss; it was the openness, the vulnerability that Dina had rarely allowed herself to show since Ellie's return from her vengeful trip to Santa Barbara. Something was different tonight, something that made Ellie’s heart beat faster, her stomach knot with a mixture of nerves and excitement.

As the fire crackled softly before them, its light waning but still casting a warm glow, Ellie’s hands moved of their own accord. She gently but firmly pulled Dina closer, deepening their embrace under the blanket that shielded them from the cool night air. Dina responded in kind, her own hands exploring Ellie’s neck, pulling her in until there was no space left between them.

Breaking the kiss momentarily, Ellie looked into Dina’s eyes, searching for an explanation or perhaps permission to continue this newfound intimacy. “Dina,” Ellie whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “What is this? What’s happening?”

Dina’s eyes, reflecting the flickering flames, were filled with a complex mix of emotions. She smiled, a slow, genuine spread of her lips that conveyed both reassurance and a hint of her own confusion. “I don’t know, Ellie,” she admitted, her voice low and husky, replace a strand of Ellie's hair behind her ear. “But doesn’t it feel… right? Like we’re finding our way back to something we thought we’d lost?”

Ellie nodded, the relief and happiness mingling with a lingering fear of the fragility of the moment. “It does. It feels like… like we’re us again. I didn’t realize how much I missed this—missed you.”

They resumed their kiss, this time with a shared desperation to hold onto the feeling, to not let the moment slip away as so many had in the past. Their kisses spoke volumes, each one a reaffirmation of their connection, a silent promise to try harder, to hold tighter.

As they continued to explore this renewed closeness, the world around them seemed to fall away. The chill of the night, the worries of the day, the uncertainties of the future—all were forgotten under the blanket, by the dying embers of their campfire.

Dina finally pulled back slightly, her forehead resting against Ellie’s, her breath warm against Ellie’s lips. “Let’s not worry about defining this right now,” she suggested softly. “Let’s just be here, together.”

Ellie smiled, a tear escaping unbidden but not unwelcome. “Together,” she echoed, the word feeling like a promise and a prayer.

They sat there for a long time, simply holding each other, the quiet of the night wrapping around them like a comforting embrace. The fire might have been fading, but between them, something was rekindling, a flame that they both needed and feared might once again burn too brightly.

In the quiet embrace under the blanket, with the warmth of the fire waning, Ellie found herself at a crossroads of emotion. The kiss they shared had been a revelation, a breath of fresh air that filled her lungs with hope and longing. As they parted, the air between them charged with newfound intimacy, Ellie realized she didn’t want the moment to end—she couldn’t let it end, not yet.

Gazing into Dina’s eyes, which reflected the flickering flames and the stars above, Ellie felt a stirring of courage mixed with a deep, almost physical need for closeness. Her heart pounded with a mix of fear and desire; fear of asking for too much, of pushing too far, but a stronger desire to show Dina just how much she meant to her.

Slowly, Ellie’s hands moved to cup Dina’s face, her thumbs gently caressing her cheeks. Dina’s skin was soft under her touch, and the simple act of touching her so tenderly felt like stitching a piece of their fractured past back together. Ellie leaned in and placed a soft kiss on Dina’s forehead, a silent thank you for the moment, for the night, for the chance to feel this close again.

Encouraged by Dina’s quiet acceptance, Ellie continued, her lips finding Dina’s eyelids, the bridge of her nose, the delicate line of her jaw. Each kiss was a whisper of gratitude, of love, of longing that had been pent up for too long. Moving to Dina’s neck, Ellie breathed in her scent—firewood, the faint floral of her shampoo, and something uniquely Dina that made Ellie’s heart ache with love.

Dina’s hand rose to thread through Ellie’s hair, anchoring her gently, a silent permission to continue. Her touch sent a shiver down Ellie’s spine, grounding her, encouraging her. The world around them seemed to slow down, the crackling of the fire and the distant night sounds fading into a backdrop for their shared connection.

Ellie’s kisses wandered lower, tracing the collarbone that she had kissed countless times before, each time feeling like both a rediscovery and a homecoming. Her hands, missing two fingers but no less gentle, explored Dina’s arms, tracing the muscles and the smooth skin, feeling the strength and the softness that coexisted in the woman she loved.

As the fire died down, its last embers casting a final, soft glow, Ellie and Dina remained locked in their tender exploration, the world outside their embrace momentarily forgotten. The cool night air wrapped around them, but the heat between them was enough, more than enough, to keep the chill at bay.

Finally, as the last light of the fire went out, leaving them in the soft shadow of the night, Ellie pulled back slightly, looking into Dina’s eyes with a vulnerability she felt down to her bones. “I needed this,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I needed you.”

Dina smiled, her eyes glistening in the dim light, her voice a soft echo of Ellie’s own feelings. “I’m right here,” she said. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

They settled back against the blankets, holding each other, the silent night around them feeling less like a boundary and more like a cocoon, sheltering their newly reaffirmed bond from the world outside. In that moment, under the vast, star-filled sky, they found a peace that had eluded them for too long, a peace they both knew they would fight to keep, come what may.

As the last embers of the campfire flickered out, the darkness of the night seemed to envelop them, though it was less a shroud and more a soft veil, adding an intimacy to the moment that neither Dina nor Ellie wanted to end. Dina, still nestled close within the circle of Ellie’s arms, leaned in to whisper, her breath warm against Ellie’s ear, “Let’s continue this discussion inside, El…”

There was something in the way Dina said it, a tone of invitation mixed with a promise, that resonated deeply within Ellie. It was as if each word was carefully chosen to tug at her heartstrings, reawakening a cascade of feelings that Ellie had thought were subdued. The affectionate abbreviation of her name, a familiar and cherished intimacy, only deepened the moment.

Without a word, they gathered themselves, leaving the blankets sprawled across the grass as a testament to their evening. Dina reached for Ellie’s hand, her grip confident and warm, and led her back towards the house. Their steps were unhurried, synchronized, as if every moment needed to be savoured. The crisp night air brushed against their skin, a refreshing contrast to the warmth that radiated between them.

Entering the house, they felt a palpable shift in the atmosphere. The usual heavy air that had been thick with guilt, grief, and regret seemed to have dissipated, replaced by a lighter, almost hopeful essence. As they ascended the stairs to their bedroom, Ellie’s heart pounded not with dread but with anticipation.

Inside their bedroom, the space felt transformed. Where shadows had once deepened the room’s gloom, now moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting gentle patterns across the floor and walls. It was as if the room had exhaled, releasing the tension it had held for so long.

Dina didn’t hesitate but continued leading Ellie by the hand to the edge of their bed, turning to face her with a soft smile. Her eyes, clear and steady, held Ellie’s in a gaze that spoke volumes of the trust and desire that had been reaffirmed between them.

Ellie, moved by the profound shift in their space and in their spirits, reached out to touch Dina’s face. The familiarity of her features was a comfort, yet the evening had added a new layer of depth to each curve and contour. “Everything feels different,” Ellie murmured, her words tinged with wonder and a hint of awe.

“It’s us,” Dina replied softly, her hands coming up to rest on Ellie’s shoulders. “We’re different. We’re healing, Ellie. And this,” she gestured around the room, “this is just the beginning.”

Encouraged by Dina’s words and the earnestness in her voice, Ellie pulled her closer, their lips meeting in a kiss that sealed their mutual commitment to move forward, to heal not just themselves but the space they shared. The kiss deepened, reigniting the passion from earlier with a renewed fervor that promised not just a night of intimacy but a hopeful redefinition of their relationship.

Their renewed connection, now thriving in a space cleansed of its past heaviness, offered them not just comfort but a profound sense of coming home, not just to a place, but to each other. The emotional landscape of their relationship, once marred by the scars of past conflicts, began to bloom anew, promising growth where there had once been decay.

As Ellie and Dina’s lips met again, their kisses deepened with each passing second, their bodies pressing closer in the cool night air. The lack of intimacy over the past few months had grown heavy between them, but here, in their shared bedroom, all those fears of loss and grief began to melt away.

Dina was the first to break the rhythm of the kiss, her hands moving to Ellie’s flannel shirt. She slowly began unbuttoning it, her fingers working with deliberate care, yet her eyes never left Ellie’s. Ellie, barely able to break her focus on Dina’s lips, kept kissing her wherever she could reach—her cheek, her jawline, down her neck. She didn’t notice right away what Dina was doing.

“Slow down, Ellie,” Dina teased softly, her voice filled with warmth and playfulness as she undid another button, her fingers brushing against Ellie’s skin. “I’m trying to get somewhere here.”

Ellie let out a small, breathless laugh, her hands clumsily searching for the hem of Dina’s shirt. “I’m… I’m helping… kinda,” Ellie mumbled, her mind far too consumed by the feel of Dina’s skin under her fingertips to fully register the teasing.

Dina grinned, a soft chuckle escaping her. “Oh, are you?” she whispered, her lips brushing against Ellie’s ear, sending a shiver down her spine. “Because it feels like you’re a little distracted, babe.”

Ellie paused, blinking as she tried to focus through the haze of her emotions. “Distracted?” she echoed, confused by Dina’s tone but unable to stop her hands from tracing the familiar curve of Dina’s waist.

Dina pulled back slightly, a playful glint in her eyes. “Yeah, distracted. Or maybe you’re just too eager?” she teased, her fingers grazing the last button of Ellie’s shirt before she slid it off her shoulders, letting it fall to the ground.
Ellie, realizing what Dina had been doing all along, flushed slightly. “Oh,” she muttered, shaking her head as if to clear the fog. “I guess I am a little… out of it.”

Dina laughed, a sound so bright and free that it caught Ellie off guard. It was the first time in what felt like ages that she had heard Dina laugh like that—a real, genuine laugh. And it was beautiful.

Ellie froze for a moment. Without thinking, she leaned in, her kisses now fueled not only by passion but by the sheer joy of seeing Dina like this again.

“That laugh…” Ellie murmured against Dina’s lips, her voice hushed, as if the sound was sacred. “God, I’ve missed it.”

Dina smiled, her eyes softening as she gazed at Ellie, her fingers gently trailing down Ellie’s chest, teasing her again. “Well, I guess I’ve missed making you work for it,” she said playfully, her voice low but laced with affection.

Ellie, encouraged by Dina’s lightness and the heat growing between them, leaned into her touch. “I’ll do whatever it takes,” Ellie said, her voice now filled with a renewed intensity. Her hands finally found their way under Dina’s shirt, lifting it slowly, inch by inch, her fingers caressing the soft skin underneath.

Dina raised her arms slightly, allowing Ellie to pull the shirt over her head, tossing it aside. “Whatever it takes, huh?” Dina’s teasing softened as she met Ellie’s eyes again, a mixture of passion and something deeper reflected there. “You better mean that,” she whispered, her voice dropping to a serious tone, just for a second, before a smile tugged at her lips again.

“I do,” Ellie responded, her voice rough with emotion, her hands now resting on Dina’s bare skin, holding her close. “I mean it.”

Dina, sensing Ellie’s mind spiraling, overwhelmed by the intensity of their passion and the weight of their long separation, decided to take control. Without breaking their kiss, she turned in Ellie’s embrace, gently pushing her backward. Ellie, caught off guard, let out a soft gasp as she stumbled slightly, landing on her elbows at the edge of their bed. Before she had time to sit up fully, Dina moved with swift grace, straddling Ellie’s lap, her body warm and inviting.

Ellie’s breath hitched as she watched Dina unhook her bra, tossing it aside carelessly, her eyes locked on Ellie’s. Dina’s bare skin, bathed in the soft light of the bedroom, seemed to radiate with both desire and affection. Ellie barely had time to react before Dina’s lips were on her again, trailing kisses down her face and neck, teasing the sensitive skin with gentle bites that sent shockwaves through Ellie’s body.

One of Dina’s hands slipped beneath Ellie’s bra, her fingers caressing Ellie’s breast with a tenderness that made Ellie’s head spin. It was too much, too intense, the dam inside Ellie—months of restraint, guilt, and fear—began to crack. A confused moan slipped from her lips, raw and unguarded, as if all the emotions she had been holding back suddenly flooded her, drowning her in a sea of passion.

With a burst of energy, Ellie sat up, her body responding before her mind could catch up. She tore off her own bra, flinging it across the room without a second thought, her hands immediately finding Dina’s waist. Her grip was firm yet gentle, one hand sliding up to cup the back of Dina’s neck while her lips found Dina’s skin again—nibbling, kissing, tasting every inch she could reach.

Dina let out a soft laugh, a sound full of affection and desire, but Ellie barely registered it. She was lost in the moment, consumed by the feel of Dina’s skin, the way her body responded under Ellie’s touch. Her kisses grew more urgent, her hands unable to keep up with the rhythm of her lips. Dina, sensing Ellie’s hunger, slowly began to unbutton her own jeans, her movements deliberate and sensual.

“Ellie,” Dina whispered, her voice low and husky, filled with need but also something deeper—something grounding. She took one of Ellie’s hands and gently guided it beneath her jeans, slipping it under the waistband of her underwear. Ellie’s fingers trembled as they found the warmth of Dina’s body, and her breath hitched, but she couldn’t find words—couldn’t form a single coherent thought.

Dina smiled softly, her voice warm and gentle, laced with affection.
“It’s okay, babe. Just… let me guide you.”

Her hand gently led Ellie’s, showing her the rhythm, the motion — like a dance they had forgotten but that returned now through breath, through sighs, through instinct. Ellie felt her palm adjust, her fingers settle where they needed to be, and suddenly their shared language — the one they thought was lost — was finding its way back, one beat at a time.

Dina arched under her, a sound caught in her throat, almost voiceless, her hips moving with that vulnerable grace Ellie had dreamed of but never dared to expect again. Her own movements remained hesitant at first, but guided by Dina’s breath, by those quiet gasps of pleasure, Ellie found a pace — slow, not out of caution but because this was precious.

When Dina’s hand gripped the back of her neck, her face burying into Ellie’s skin to muffle a cry, Ellie felt the ground disappear beneath her. It wasn’t the pleasure that unraveled her. It was the depth of it. The emotion in every shiver.

Dina’s body tensed, her breath growing erratic. She was trembling. And when release finally overtook her, it wasn’t just her body that gave in — it was her heart. She moaned into Ellie’s mouth, and then the tears came. Not as an overflow — but as a surrender.

Dina was crying. Truly crying. And in those tears tangled with breathless pleasure, Ellie realized what this night really was. It wasn’t just their bodies reconnecting — it was their hearts finally stopping the running.
“I’m sorry,” Dina choked out, her voice broken against Ellie’s skin.
“It’s just… it’s been so long, Ellie. I didn’t think we’d ever get back here.”

Ellie couldn’t respond, not at first. Her throat was tight, her heart heavy. She wrapped her arms around Dina, holding her there, her mouth pressed against her damp forehead.
“Me too,” she whispered. “But we’re here. I’m not letting go.”

Dina clung to her for a while, her breath uneven, her body still folded against Ellie’s like she was trying to become whole again.
And it was Ellie who moved next — not to take, but to give more.

She kissed Dina’s forehead, her eyelids, the curve of her jaw. Slow, deep kisses full of gratitude. Her lips traveled down her neck, tasting her. Sweat, tears, heat — all of it was Dina.

Dina opened her eyes and reached up, her fingers cradling Ellie’s face like she needed to feel every line, every freckle, to know she was real.
And what came next between them wasn’t a build-up. It was a weaving. A mending.

Ellie moved back up over Dina’s body, pressing kisses, tracing with her fingers, exhaling into her skin. Her hands still trembled, but there was care in every movement. She wasn’t chasing pleasure — she was giving Dina something back. Her space. Her body. Her safety.

And Dina responded — not with volume, but with presence. Her hands moved with reverence, drawing shapes into Ellie’s back, holding her as if this was how she remembered being alive. Every breath, every pause between their mouths said more than words could ever hope to.

Their legs tangled again. Heat built between them. But it wasn’t feverish. It was full. The room wrapped around them like a cocoon. There was no shame. No guilt. No silence. Just two women, two lovers, meeting each other where they were — raw, tired, and true.

When Ellie finally pressed her forehead to Dina’s, both of them breathless, there were no more questions. They knew.
What they’d just shared wasn’t a dream.
It was a return.

And it was fragile.

And Ellie, lying there in a night she thought she’d never get back, felt a love so deep it scared her.
She wanted to keep it.
Protect it.
Deserve it.
She wanted to believe in it.

Not knowing she would lose it. That this was the last time.

___

As they lay there, the warmth of their shared intimacy began to shift into a quiet, comforting calm. Dina rested her head against Ellie’s chest, her arm draped over her waist, holding her close. Ellie’s fingers absentmindedly traced circles along Dina’s back, their silence now a mutual understanding, a peaceful lull after the storm of emotions they had both been carrying for so long.

The room felt different now, as if the weight of guilt and regret had finally lifted, making space for something new. Ellie stared up at the ceiling, her mind still trying to process everything, but there was a newfound sense of peace settling over her. This wasn’t just about making love; it was about rediscovering each other, about finding the courage to start again.

“I missed you so much,” Ellie finally whispered, her voice barely audible, almost as if she were afraid to say it out loud. But it was the truth, and it hung in the air between them, fragile yet powerful.

Dina shifted slightly, her eyes meeting Ellie’s as she lifted her head. “I missed you too,” she whispered back, her voice carrying the weight of months of loneliness and longing. She leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Ellie’s lips, a gentle affirmation of everything they had just shared. “I never stopped missing you.”

Ellie’s heart swelled at Dina’s words, her chest tightening with a mixture of gratitude and relief. For so long, she had been drowning in her own guilt, her own pain, but here, in this moment, she finally felt like she could breathe again.

They stayed like that for what felt like hours, wrapped in each other’s arms, their bodies still buzzing with the afterglow of their passion, their hearts beating in sync. Outside, the world continued on, but in their bedroom, time seemed to stand still.

Eventually, the night began to catch up with them, their exhaustion from the emotional intensity pulling them towards sleep. Dina nuzzled closer to Ellie, her voice barely above a whisper as she said, “Let’s not let this slip away again, okay?”

Ellie tightened her grip around Dina, her voice soft but resolute. “I won’t. I promise.” She meant it, and for the first time in a long time, she believed in the possibility of that promise.

As they drifted off to sleep, wrapped in the warmth of each other’s arms, Ellie allowed herself to hope—hope for healing, for love, and for whatever the future might hold for them, together.

Chapter Text

Ellie stirred beneath the soft warmth of the sheets, her body sinking deeper into the mattress as the light from the sun poured through the half-closed curtains. It was a warmth she hadn’t felt in months—a calmness, a sense of peace that had been so far out of reach since she’d returned to Jackson. For the first time in what felt like forever, she didn’t wake with the weight of exhaustion clinging to her like a second skin. Instead, there was something new, something light—a feeling she thought had been lost to her a long time ago.

Before she even opened her eyes, she could feel the sun on her bare skin, the gentle heat kissing her arms and legs. She lay there for a moment longer, savouring it, her mind still blissfully foggy from sleep. It was late, she could tell—middle of the morning, maybe even later. The brightness of the sun hinted at a time long past her usual early wake-ups for patrol.

Her thoughts drifted back to the night before, to the quiet moments she had spent with Dina. There was a warmth in her chest at the memory, a quiet happiness she hadn’t let herself feel in so long. She hadn’t thought it was possible to wake up feeling like this again, with a sense of peace and hope that had been absent for months. Slowly, Ellie turned under the blanket, her lips curling into a soft smile as she instinctively reached out, expecting to feel Dina still lying beside her.

But her hand found nothing.

The warmth that had filled her chest was suddenly replaced by a tight knot of anxiety, her eyes snapping open as her fingers met the cold, empty side of the bed. The blankets were rumpled, but there was no sign of Dina. Panic fluttered in her stomach, and for a brief, terrifying moment, Ellie wondered if it had all been a dream.

She sat up quickly, the sheet slipping from her bare shoulders as she scanned the room, her heart racing. The bed, the sun, the feeling of warmth—it all felt so real. But Dina wasn’t there. And the absence hit Ellie like a punch to the gut, her mind rushing to fill in the blanks with the worst possibilities.

Had it all been in her head?

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, still feeling the lingering warmth on her skin from the sun’s rays, but the coldness inside her spread like wildfire. The familiar dread settled in— the same feeling she had the first morning she woke up alone after coming back from Santa Barbara, the same hollow fear that everything she wanted had slipped away.

Ellie grabbed the discarded shirt from the floor, her movements stiff and clumsy, the panic bubbling just below the surface. Her mind raced, grasping at explanations—maybe Dina had gone to check on JJ, or gone downstairs to make breakfast. But the knot in her chest wouldn’t ease. Dina’s absence felt too familiar, too reminiscent of all the mornings Ellie had woken up to an empty house, to the crushing realization that Dina had taken JJ and left her behind.

No, not again. Not after last night.

Her breathing quickened as she stood up, her legs shaky, the familiar anxiety gnawing at her resolve. She could still feel Dina’s touch, the warmth of her body, the softness of her lips from the night before. It had been real—it had to be real. But now, in the glaring light of day, with Dina gone, doubt crept in like a shadow.

Ellie threw on her shirt and jeans, her movements hurried, as if the faster she dressed, the sooner she would find Dina and put her mind at ease. But the knot in her stomach twisted tighter with every second that passed, her thoughts spiraling as she fought to push away the growing fear.

Don’t freak out. She’s probably just downstairs. Maybe she wanted to give you space. Ellie told herself, but the reassurance felt hollow.

With one last glance at the empty bed, Ellie hurried toward the door, her heart pounding in her chest as she made her way down the stairs, hoping—praying—that when she reached the bottom, Dina would be there, waiting for her.

Ellie didn’t take the time to tread carefully down the stairs—she ran, her feet barely catching the steps beneath her, her hand grazing the banister as she stumbled forward. Her heart pounded in her chest, the rush of panic drowning out every other sensation. As she reached the bottom, her breath caught, her body nearly colliding with the floor as she stopped abruptly.

Her eyes darted around the room, desperate for any sign of Dina. The table was set, the clean silverware neatly arranged on the cloth, gleaming in the morning light. It was a good sign. It had to be. But it wasn’t enough. Not for Ellie—not with the familiar tightness in her chest.

She half stumbled, half ran to the kitchen, her vision blurring as the tears she hadn’t realized were forming began to sting her eyes. The fear, the fresh wound of uncertainty, tightened around her, squeezing her heart until she could barely breathe. She couldn’t lose Dina again. Not after everything.

Then, through the haze of her spiraling thoughts, she saw her.

Dina, standing by the counter, casually stirring a cup of tea, her body wrapped loosely in Ellie’s flannel—the one she had been wearing just the night before. The sight hit Ellie like a wave, stopping her in her tracks. The relief came first, but it was fleeting, replaced by the overwhelming emotions she had been holding back for so long.

Dina, sensing Ellie’s presence, turned slowly from the counter. Her soft brown eyes widened slightly when she saw the look on Ellie’s face—terrified, in shock, on the verge of breaking
down. Ellie was standing there, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her hands trembling at her sides. Dina’s smile faded as she took in the scene.

“Ellie…” Dina’s voice was soft, her gaze filled with concern as she set the mug down and took a step closer. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Ellie couldn’t speak at first, her mouth opening but no sound coming out. Her mind was a whirlwind, and she felt as if she were teetering on the edge of some unseen cliff, about to fall. The tears that had welled up now began to spill over, and she barely noticed them.

Dina closed the distance between them quickly, her brow furrowed as she reached out to touch Ellie’s arm. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m right here.”

Ellie’s breath hitched in her throat, the panic still clinging to her chest, but her gaze locked onto Dina’s—the soft, warm eyes that had always made her feel safe, grounded. “N-Nina…” Ellie whispered, her voice small and fragile, barely able to force the word out. It was her pet name for Dina, a mix of her name and the Spanish word "niña," something she had never quite been able to say properly.

Dina’s heart softened at the sound of it, hearing Ellie use that name, the one she only called her when she was most vulnerable. She could see it—the fear that Ellie carried, the weight of everything she’d been through, and how, in that moment, it was all crashing down on her.

Without hesitation, Dina wrapped her arms around Ellie, pulling her close. Ellie didn’t resist— her body slumped forward into Dina’s embrace, her face buried against her shoulder. Dina’s hand gently stroked the back of Ellie’s head, her voice a soft whisper in Ellie’s ear. “It’s okay, babe. I’m right here. You’re safe.”

Ellie’s body trembled, the tears falling freely now, her breaths ragged and uneven. She clung to Dina, her fingers gripping the fabric of the flannel as if letting go meant losing her all over again.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Dina whispered, her lips brushing against Ellie’s temple. “I’m right here, and I’m not leaving. Okay? You’re not alone.”

Ellie’s heart pounded in her chest, the panic slowly ebbing away as Dina’s words wrapped around her like a blanket. The softness of Dina’s voice, the warmth of her arms, began to pull her out of the spiral she had fallen into. Her breathing started to slow, her mind settling from the storm that had threatened to overwhelm her.

Dina pulled back just enough to look Ellie in the eyes, her hands gently cupping her face. “Breathe, Ellie. Just breathe with me.”

Ellie nodded weakly, trying to steady herself, focusing on the rhythm of Dina’s breathing. In and out. In and out. Slowly, Ellie’s breaths began to match Dina’s, her panic fading as the quiet steadiness of Dina’s presence grounded her.

“Nina…” Ellie whispered again, her voice still shaky, but this time with a hint of relief. She blinked through the tears, her hands still clinging to Dina’s shirt. “I… I thought…”

“I know,” Dina interrupted gently, brushing a stray lock of hair from Ellie’s face. “But I’m here. I’m not leaving, I promise. I’m not going anywhere.”

Ellie closed her eyes for a moment, her body relaxing slightly as Dina’s words sunk in. She rested her forehead against Dina’s, her heart still pounding but no longer in panic. Instead, there was something else—something softer, more hopeful.

“I’m sorry,” Ellie muttered, her voice thick with emotion.

Dina smiled softly, shaking her head. “You don’t have to be sorry. We’re okay. You’re okay.”

Ellie exhaled shakily, feeling the warmth of Dina’s body, the scent of the flannel she was wearing—the one that now carried traces of both of them. Slowly, the panic that had threatened to take her under was replaced by a quiet sense of relief. Dina was here. She was safe.

As they stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, Ellie allowed herself to believe it. As Dina felt Ellie’s breathing finally steady against her, the trembling subsiding, she couldn’t help but feel a swell of tenderness and concern. She had always known about Ellie’s PTSD— how it had gripped her since Joel’s death, and how their vengeful trip to Seattle had only deepened the scars. But this… this vulnerability, this raw panic she had just witnessed—this was different. Dina hadn’t seen it evolve like this since Ellie returned from Santa Barbara. The walls Ellie had built were crumbling, and Dina wasn’t sure how to help fix them, but she knew she had to try.

Gently, Dina pulled back just enough to meet Ellie’s eyes, her hands still resting on Ellie’s shoulders, steadying her. “Hey,” she said softly, her voice laced with warmth and a hint of teasing, “you’ve gotta stop scaring me like that. I’m not going anywhere, remember?”

Ellie sniffed, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, but the tears didn’t stop. Dina reached for an old box of tissues on the counter and handed them to her. “Here, babe, take these. Can’t have you all puffy-eyed when I make you breakfast.”

Ellie hesitated for a second, then took the tissues, dabbing at her eyes and nose. She gave a weak smile, but the exhaustion in her face was obvious. Dina noticed the way Ellie’s clothes hung on her—her shirt, wrinkled and full of holes, looked more like a rag than something she should be wearing. Her jeans were unevenly pulled up, the waistband crooked from her hurried dressing. It was clear Ellie hadn’t taken a second to think about what she had thrown on.

Dina raised an eyebrow, trying to inject some lightness into the moment. “Ellie, baby... did you even look at what you put on?” She motioned at the dirty shirt, its holes almost laughable. “This thing’s probably older than the apocalypse. And your jeans…” She shook her head with a playful smirk. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear them that uneven before. Did you get dressed in the dark?”

Ellie blinked, glancing down at herself, and for the first time, seemed to register how much of a mess she was. The corners of her mouth twitched, just a little, but the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Dina’s smile softened. “Come on,” she said, wrapping an arm around Ellie and guiding her toward the kitchen table. “You can sit while I make us breakfast, I’ll help you change later.”

Ellie let herself be led, her body moving on autopilot as Dina gently pushed her toward the chair. She sank into it, her mind still foggy, but the panic was slowly ebbing, replaced by a fragile calm. She watched as Dina bustled around the kitchen, grabbing coffee mugs and rummaging through the pantry.

Dina’s voice cut through the silence, calm but encouraging. “I’m gonna make you some coffee, alright? And maybe something to eat. You need to take care of yourself, El.” She shot a glance over her shoulder as she set the coffee pot on the stove, her eyes softening when they met Ellie’s. “And I’ll take care of you, too.”

Ellie nodded, still not trusting her voice. She hadn’t realized just how fragile she felt, how deeply the fear of losing Dina had burrowed inside her. The night before had been so full of hope, of connection, but this morning, it had all come crashing down the moment she’d woken up alone. The thought of Dina slipping away from her again—of being alone—had sent her spiraling, and it scared her to admit how much she needed Dina now.

Dina moved back toward Ellie, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder as she leaned down to press a soft kiss to the top of her head. “Hey, you’re okay,” she whispered. “I’m right here. And I’m not leaving you, okay?”

Ellie closed her eyes at the touch, her heart swelling with the warmth of Dina’s affection. She knew Dina meant it, but the scars from her past—Joel, Abby, Santa Barbara—had made her doubt everything. She wasn’t used to this, to the softness of someone staying.

Dina smiled at her softly. “Alright, sit tight.” She walked over to the fridge and pulled out some eggs and bread. “I’m gonna whip us up some scrambled eggs. Coffee will be ready in a minute.”

Ellie watched her, her hands still trembling slightly, but the small gestures—Dina’s flannel on her shoulders, the quiet movement around the kitchen, the normalcy of it—helped steady her. There was something comforting about the way Dina moved, her quiet confidence in doing something as simple as making breakfast. It felt… stable. And Ellie clung to that.

Dina turned back to her, tilting her head slightly. “You’re not getting out of changing though,” she teased, gesturing to Ellie’s mismatched outfit. “I’ll find you something later. Maybe not this flannel, though,” she added with a grin, gesturing to the one she was wearing. “It’s way too cozy to give back right now.”

Ellie couldn’t help the faint smile that tugged at her lips, the first genuine one since the panic had hit. Dina was trying to keep things light, trying to cheer her up, and for a moment, it worked. She hadn’t expected to feel this fragile—this afraid of losing Dina again—but the calmness of the morning and Dina’s quiet presence helped. Slowly, as the scent of coffee and eggs began to fill the kitchen, Ellie felt the tightness in her chest begin to ease.

Ellie sat quietly at the kitchen table, her nerves slowly unwinding with each bite of breakfast. The familiar smell of scrambled eggs and the warmth of the coffee Dina had placed in front of her helped soothe her shaken mind. She ate slowly, the tension in her body gradually loosening as the morning wore on. Dina sat beside her, occasionally brushing her hand over Ellie’s arm or shoulder, a constant reminder that she was there.

With each passing minute, Ellie felt herself calming, the panic that had gripped her earlier fading like a bad dream. She hadn’t realized just how much she had needed this—the normalcy of a simple breakfast, the quiet support of Dina at her side. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something, and for the first time in a long while, Ellie let herself lean into it.

After breakfast, Dina stood up, taking Ellie’s hand in hers as she gently pulled her toward the stairs. “Come on,” she said softly, her voice light but encouraging. “Let’s get you dressed. We can deal with the mess later.”

Ellie followed, still feeling a little unsteady but grounded by Dina’s hand in hers. The kitchen could wait. For now, it was just the two of them, and that was enough.

Upstairs, Dina guided Ellie into their bedroom, where the sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. Ellie still felt a faint nervousness clinging to her, but Dina’s steady presence helped to ease her mind. Dina moved over to the dresser, pulling out some cleaner, more comfortable clothes for Ellie—something simple but soft, something that would help her feel more like herself again.

“These should be better,” Dina said, handing the clothes to Ellie with a small smile. “I’m not letting you go out in that shirt again.”

Ellie took the clothes, glancing down at the flannel Dina was still wearing—her flannel, the one she had worn the day before during their volunteering at the town square. The sight of it made
her smile, a warmth blooming in her chest. Dina didn’t mention it, but Ellie could see the faint amusement in her eyes as she noticed Ellie staring.

Dina turned back to her own side of the room, pulling out clothes for herself as well. She didn’t rush Ellie, letting her take her time. As they both began to dress, Ellie felt a sense of quiet comfort settle over the room. The earlier panic had left her feeling raw and exposed, but now, with Dina nearby, she felt a fragile peace growing.

Dina finished first, adjusting the flannel on her shoulders and glancing back at Ellie. “Still looks better on me, doesn’t it?” she teased, a playful smile tugging at her lips.

Ellie couldn’t help but chuckle softly. “I don’t know about that…” Laughing, Dina turned to get another piece of clothing, one made for the chilled season, wrapping Ellie inside the sweater.

Dina stepped closer, her hand resting gently on Ellie’s arm as she looked into her eyes, her smile softening. “You okay?”

Ellie hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah… better.”

Dina’s gaze lingered on her, searching her face for any sign of lingering distress. Satisfied with what she saw, she closed the distance between them, wrapping her arms around Ellie in a gentle embrace. Ellie leaned into it, her body relaxing as Dina’s warmth surrounded her. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Just the simple act of being held reminded Ellie that she wasn’t alone, that maybe she didn’t have to carry everything by herself.

Dina pulled back slightly, her hand lifting to cup Ellie’s cheek as she pressed a soft kiss to her lips. It was tender, gentle, and Ellie felt her heart swell at the touch. For a moment, it felt like the weight of everything they had been through was lifted again, like maybe they could find their way back to each other after all.

But the moment was interrupted by a sudden knock at the door downstairs.

Both of them froze, the sound cutting through the quiet intimacy like a jarring note. Dina pulled away first, her eyes darting toward the door. Ellie’s heart sank a little, the fragile peace they had just found slipping away as the knock echoed again.

“I’ll get it,” Dina said quickly, her voice calm but firm. She gave Ellie’s arm a reassuring squeeze before letting go. “Stay here and relax, okay? I’ll be right back.”

Ellie nodded, watching as Dina moved toward the door, her footsteps quick and steady as she headed downstairs. The quiet of the room felt heavier now, the brief moment of connection fading as Ellie was left alone with her thoughts. She swallowed, trying to push away the unease creeping back into her chest, while sitting on the edge of the messy bed.

Downstairs, Dina opened the door, her expression shifting slightly when she saw Maria standing on the other side. The older woman’s face was serious, as it often was, but there was a softness in her eyes—something that told Dina this wasn’t just a casual visit.

“Maria,” Dina greeted, stepping aside to let her in. “What’s going on? Is everything alright?”

Maria stepped into the house, her eyes scanning the familiar surroundings as she took a few steps inside. She hadn’t seen Ellie since the previous night when they were all volunteering at the communal dinner, and while she wasn’t immediately worried, Ellie’s absence from her scheduled patrol that morning had been enough to make her check in. She wasn’t concerned that Ellie had run off—JJ had gone with his grandparents the day before, and Maria had watched as Ellie and Dina went home together after the dinner. Still, the lack of any word from Ellie this morning had left a lingering feeling of unease.

As Maria turned toward Dina, she noticed something that brought a small, knowing smile to her lips—Dina was wearing Ellie’s flannel from the day before, her face a little flushed from the morning rush. Maria’s smile softened, her gaze flicking toward the stairs as she instinctively pieced together what had likely happened during the night.

“Should I… come back later?” Maria asked, her voice gentle but carrying a hint of amusement. “I can see you two had a... busy night.”

Dina’s eyes widened slightly, and she felt a faint blush rise to her cheeks. She quickly tugged at the edges of the flannel, as if only just now realizing how obvious the situation was. “Oh, no, it’s fine,” Dina stammered, her voice a little rushed. “We were just… getting ready to get JJ back from Robin's for the day.”

Maria’s smile remained, though she didn’t push any further. She nodded slightly before her expression grew more serious, her concern for Ellie surfacing again. “Is Ellie okay?” she asked, her voice lowering as she looked back at Dina. “I didn’t hear from her this morning for patrol, and I just wanted to check in. Can I talk to her? Is she alright?”

Dina hesitated, glancing toward the stairs, her brow furrowing slightly as she thought of how shaken Ellie had been earlier that morning. “She’s... she’s better,” Dina answered carefully, not wanting to downplay Ellie’s fragile state but also not wanting to worry Maria. “She had a rough start to the morning, but she’s okay now.”

Maria’s concern deepened, and before she could ask further, a familiar sound came from the stairs. Both women turned as Ellie appeared at the top, slowly descending the steps. She still looked shaken, her face a little pale, but there was a quiet determination in the way she moved —less fragile than she had been earlier, though still not quite steady.

“Hey Maria,” Ellie called softly, her voice a little rough, but her eyes meeting Maria’s. She reached the bottom of the stairs and paused, her fingers fidgeting at her sides. “I’m sorry I didn’t show up this morning. I... overslept.”

Maria’s eyes softened as she looked at Ellie, taking in her appearance, the lingering signs of unease etched in her features. “No need to apologize, Ellie,” she said kindly, stepping closer. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

Ellie nodded, though she avoided Maria’s gaze for a moment, feeling the weight of her worry. “I’m fine. Just... had a rough morning,” she murmured, echoing Dina’s earlier words.

Maria exchanged a quick glance with Dina before turning her full attention back to Ellie. “I get it, you need more sleep,” she said gently. “It’s good to see you, though.”

There was no judgment in Maria’s tone, only quiet understanding. Ellie felt a small weight lift from her chest as she stood there, grateful that Maria hadn’t pushed her too hard.

“Do you want to take the day off?” Maria offered. “We will reschedule your training and patrol for another day, you’re not looking like you're up for it.”

Ellie hesitated, glancing at Dina, who gave her a soft, reassuring nod. “Thanks, I... I appreciate it,” Ellie finally said, though her voice wavered slightly. “I needed a little more time this morning.”

Maria nodded in understanding. “Alright. Don’t push yourself today, okay? You’re allowed to take a break.”

Ellie gave a weak smile, her heart warming slightly at the concern from both Maria and Dina. “Thanks,” she muttered, her voice soft but genuine.

Maria smiled back, her eyes kind as she glanced between the two of them. “Alright, well, I’ll leave you two to whatever you were planning. Just wanted to check in.”

Dina placed a gentle hand on Ellie’s back, a quiet show of support as they watched Maria turn to leave. Ellie felt the warmth of Dina’s touch seep into her, calming her nerves even more.

“Take care of yourself, Ellie,” Maria added as she reached the door, her voice filled with quiet affection before she stepped outside, closing it softly behind her.

As the door clicked shut, Ellie let out a small sigh, feeling the tension in her body slowly drain away. Dina’s hand remained on her back, a steady presence that helped ground her.

“You okay?” Dina asked softly, her eyes searching Ellie’s face.

Ellie nodded, though the morning’s emotions still lingered in her chest. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I think I’ll survive this one.”

___

Time passed slowly but steadily for Ellie, the rhythm of her days in Jackson becoming more familiar and comforting. She had returned to her patrol routine a couple days later, her boots once again hitting the dirt paths that wound around the town’s borders. The daily patrols were easier now, with the quiet landscapes offering her a sense of stability she had craved. Each day felt a little more manageable, a little less like she was teetering on the edge of something she couldn’t control.

Ellie had also found a way to reintegrate into Jackson’s community. The communal tasks— whether it was helping with repairs, volunteering at dinners with Dina, or assisting with the livestock—gave her a purpose, something to focus on beyond her internal struggles. She felt more at ease when her hands were busy, whether it was fixing fences or serving bowls of stew to neighbors. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep her grounded.

Her relationship with Dina had settled into a cautious but hopeful routine. The night they had spent together had been a turning point, but Ellie knew better than to believe that one night could heal everything. They were still taking their time—slow, tentative steps toward rebuilding what had been broken. There were moments, though, when things felt almost normal again. Small moments of laughter, shared smiles, and gentle touches that reminded Ellie of what they once had. But the distance between them hadn’t fully disappeared, and Ellie still felt it on the edges of their interactions.

JJ had become a source of peace for Ellie. Each day, she made a point of spending time with him, whether it was playing in the yard or sitting at the kitchen table, drawing silly pictures of animals and monsters. JJ’s laughter, his pure joy in the simplest things, helped quiet the noise in Ellie’s mind. When she was with him, the world felt a little less heavy, a little less complicated.

One afternoon, Ellie sat with JJ on the floor of their living room, a pile of crayons and paper scattered around them. JJ was focused on his latest masterpiece, his tiny hands gripping the crayons as he scribbled furiously. Ellie smiled softly as she watched him, her own fingers tracing idle shapes on a nearby sheet of paper. This was the kind of peace she had longed for —quiet moments like this, where nothing else seemed to matter.

But even as she found peace in her routine, Ellie couldn’t shake the sense of unease that lingered beneath the surface. Her PTSD, though less disruptive than before, still haunted her at night. It wasn’t every night, and the panic attacks were less frequent than they had been in the months after Santa Barbara, but they hadn’t disappeared entirely.

Sometimes, she would wake up in the dead of night, her heart racing, her breath shallow, the memories of her past battles flooding her mind. The images of the people she had fought, the ones she had killed, still burned in the back of her brain. The nightmares were vivid—so real that she could almost feel the weight of the knife in her hand, the taste of blood in her mouth. In those moments, it was hard to remember that she was safe, that she wasn’t out there fighting for her life anymore.

But now, Dina was there when it happened. She would wake up to the sound of Ellie’s sharp breaths, her body tense and trembling in the dark. Without a word, Dina would reach out, her hand finding Ellie’s in the darkness, and pull her close. The warmth of Dina’s body against hers, the steady rhythm of her breathing, always helped anchor Ellie back to the present.

Even if they didn’t talk about it much, Ellie knew Dina understood. She had seen the worst of Ellie’s pain, had walked through it with her. But still, Ellie couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt that came with every panic attack. She hated that Dina had to see her like that, hated that she couldn’t control it, even after all this time. And though Dina never made her feel ashamed, Ellie couldn’t help but wonder if she was still dragging Dina down, still holding her back from something better.

In the daylight, things were easier. The routine of their life in Jackson offered a kind of stability that Ellie hadn’t felt in years. And with JJ around, there were moments of pure joy that made Ellie feel like maybe, just maybe, she could find some kind of peace.

But at night, when the darkness closed in and the memories came rushing back, Ellie was reminded that her past was never far behind. The scars of what she had done, of what she had lost, still lingered. And no matter how much progress she made, there was always a part of her that feared it could all come crashing down again.

For now, though, Ellie focused on the small victories. The mornings when she woke up without the weight of her nightmares. The afternoons spent with JJ, laughing and playing in the yard. The quiet moments with Dina, where they could sit together in the fading light of the evening, sharing a comfortable silence that felt almost like home.

It wasn’t perfect. But it was enough.

Chapter Text

The crisp morning air clung to Ellie’s skin as she made her way through Jackson’s winding streets. Spring had begun to paint the town in softer hues, replacing the barren winter landscape with fresh buds and the beginnings of greenery. It had been months since the quiet lull of fall, and Jackson had come alive again in the embrace of the new season.

Ellie’s patrol that morning had been uneventful, just another routine check along the perimeter. The familiar paths offered her a sense of peace, a quiet space where her mind could wander without falling too deep into the shadows of her past. She had finished her patrol early, as usual, and had gone straight to her daily meeting with Maria, discussing patrol schedules and updates on the community. The meetings had become another part of her routine, another piece of the puzzle that kept her grounded.

By the time Ellie arrived back at the house, the sun had fully risen, casting a warm light over the street. She pushed open the door, the familiar creak of the hinges welcoming her home. The scent of fresh laundry and the sound of JJ’s babbling reached her before anything else.

Inside, Dina stood by the living room window, folding a pile of freshly cleaned clothes. Her hair was loosely tied back, strands escaping around her face as she worked. On the floor, JJ sat surrounded by a collection of mismatched toys, happily chatting away to himself in the way only toddlers could. A few months past his second birthday, he had started repeating words, babbling his way through conversations that only he fully understood.

Ellie paused in the doorway, her eyes lingering on the scene before her. It was simple, but it was everything. JJ spotted her first, his face lighting up in excitement as he clambered up to his feet.

“Mama!” JJ’s voice rang out, his small arms stretching toward her in delight, stopping at the side of the couch.

Ellie smiled, her heart warming at the sound of his voice. But before heading to him, she looked over at Dina. The smile Dina gave her was warmer than usual, more open, a sign that today was one of the better days. The weight that had once pressed down on their relationship seemed lighter now, though it hadn’t fully lifted. They were still healing, but moments like this made it feel like they were on their way.

Feeling a sense of stability she hadn’t felt in a long time, Ellie crossed the room toward Dina first. Gently, she slipped her arms around Dina’s waist, pulling her into a soft embrace. Dina looked up, a flicker of surprise crossing her face before she smiled, her hands pausing in the middle of folding a shirt.

“Hey,” Ellie whispered, pressing a tender kiss to Dina’s cheek. The kiss was light, but it carried a weight of unspoken affection, of the progress they had made together over the past months.

Dina leaned into the touch, her own smile widening. “Hey,” she replied, her voice soft but steady. It was a small moment, but it was enough. It was more than they had dared hope for just a few months ago.

After that brief exchange, Ellie reluctantly let go of Dina and turned her attention to JJ, who was still eagerly bouncing on his feet, waiting for her. She crouched down and scooped him up, his small arms immediately wrapping around her neck.

“Hey, buddy,” Ellie said, her voice filled with affection. “What’ve you been up to, huh?”

JJ giggled, his chubby hands patting her shoulder as he babbled in response. “Mama, play!” he demanded, pointing toward the pile of toys on the floor.

Ellie laughed softly, shifting him in her arms. “Alright, alright, we’ll play in a minute,” she promised, glancing back at Dina. “But first, how about we say good morning properly?”

JJ, still in his eager toddler phase of learning and mimicking, beamed up at her. “Mornin’!”

Ellie’s smile grew. “Good job, buddy.”

As she settled back into the rhythm of the household, a quiet contentment filled the air. It wasn’t perfect—not by a long shot—but it was enough for now. And for Ellie, that was everything.

Ellie settled onto the floor with JJ, fully immersing herself in his little world for an instant. He handed her a small toy car, babbling excitedly about roads and horses in a mix of barely formed words. Ellie grinned, taking the toy from him and making exaggerated car noises, zooming the toy around in circles. JJ burst into giggles, his eyes lighting up with joy.

“Vroom, vroom!” Ellie mimicked, her voice full of playful energy as she steered the toy in wide loops on the floor. JJ clapped his hands, squealing in delight as he grabbed another toy—this one a plastic horse. “Neeigh!” he shouted, holding the horse up high.

Ellie joined in, mimicking the sound of galloping hooves, and they both laughed together, completely lost in their little game. The room was filled with the sounds of their make-believe world—cars and horses racing together in a strange, wonderful adventure.

Dina, still by the window folding the last of the laundry, watched them with a smile that reached her eyes. The sight of Ellie so present, so fully engaged with JJ, warmed her heart. It wasn’t always like this. Ellie had struggled to connect, to let herself feel at ease in moments like these, but now—seeing her laugh so freely with JJ—it felt like something had shifted. A piece of the old Ellie, the one before all the pain and distance, had surfaced again.

An hour passed in this peaceful rhythm. Dina finished folding the clothes and stacked them neatly on the table, her attention still half-focused on Ellie and JJ’s laughter. She wiped her hands on a towel and glanced toward the living room, thinking to ask Ellie for some help with one of the household chores they had been putting off.

Just as Dina opened her mouth to speak, a sudden noise from outside cut through the room—a low murmur of voices, followed by the sound of footsteps on the dirt road.

Dina frowned, her body instinctively tensing as she exchanged a quick glance with Ellie, who had also heard the noise. Ellie paused mid-play, the toy car still in her hand, her eyes narrowing slightly as she listened.

“Were you waiting for someone today?” Dina asked, her voice low.

Ellie nodded, her playful expression shifting to one of quiet focus. She set the toy down and gently nudged JJ toward his pile of blocks, distracting him for a moment. “Stay here, buddy,” she murmured, her voice calm but firm. JJ, sensing the change in mood, stayed where he was, his eyes wide with curiosity.

Ellie stood up, her gaze fixed on the door as the sounds outside grew louder. She glanced at Dina, her mind already running through the possibilities of what—or who—might be outside.

The knock came, just as they both expected, loud and steady. Ellie and Dina exchanged another glance, and before Ellie could reach the door, JJ scrambled up to follow her, his tiny feet pattering behind her. Ellie glanced back, smiling faintly at him before opening the door to reveal Mr. Andler standing on their porch. His usual warm, almost contagious smile spread across his face as he tipped his hat.

“Morning, Ellie,” Mr. Andler greeted, his eyes twinkling in that familiar friendly way. “Maria sent me. Said she needs you back at her office.”

Ellie furrowed her brow, glancing over at Dina, who had joined her by the door. “What’s going on?” Dina asked, a touch of concern creeping into her voice.

Mr. Andler chuckled softly, his eyes crinkling at the edges as if he was in on some inside joke. “Now, now, don’t look so worried,” he said, leaning slightly against the doorframe. “From what I heard, it may have something to do with some old friends of yours, Ellie, showing up at the gates.”

Ellie stiffened slightly, the weight of his words settling in. “Old friends?” she repeated, her mind racing through the possibilities. It had been so long since anyone from her past had turned up, and the thought of who might be waiting at the gates sent a ripple of uncertainty through her.

Mr. Andler nodded, his smile still firmly in place, clearly enjoying keeping Ellie in suspense. “That’s what I’ve been told. Guess you’ll have to head over to Maria’s to find out the details.”

Ellie shifted on her feet, glancing briefly at Dina. Dina raised her eyebrows, clearly just as curious as Ellie, but she gave a small nod of encouragement. “You should go,” Dina said softly. “I’ll stay here with JJ.”

Ellie gave her a quick, grateful nod before turning back to Mr. Andler. “Alright, I’ll head over. Thanks, Mr. Andler.”

He tipped his hat again. “You bet. Good luck, Ellie!”

As Mr. Andler made his way down the porch steps, Ellie felt a strange mix of emotions swirling inside her. Whoever was waiting at the gates... she wasn’t sure if she was ready for them.

Ellie felt a heaviness settle in her chest as Mr. Andler’s words echoed in her mind. She reached for her coat, pulling it over her shoulders with an almost mechanical motion, her thoughts racing as she prepared to head out.

Turning back toward Dina and JJ, Ellie forced a small smile. She leaned down and pressed a kiss to JJ’s forehead, her fingers brushing through his soft hair, making him giggle in that way that always made her heart lighter, if only for a moment.

“I’ll get this sorted out,” Ellie murmured, her eyes meeting Dina’s. There was a flicker of worry in Dina’s expression, but she masked it well, offering Ellie a small, reassuring smile.

“Good luck,” Dina whispered, her voice soft but steady.

Ellie paused, something in Dina’s words grounding her in the moment. She leaned in, pressing a deeper kiss to Dina’s lips, letting herself linger for just a second longer than usual. “You’re my good luck, Nina,” she said quietly, her voice filled with an affection she couldn’t always put into words.

Dina’s smile softened, and Ellie could see the warmth behind her eyes as she nodded, giving Ellie the encouragement she needed.

With one last glance at JJ, Ellie ruffled his hair, making him laugh again. “Be good for your mama, okay, buddy?” she said, standing up straighter, the weight of what was ahead settling onto her shoulders.

Without another word, Ellie stepped outside, her boots crunching against the dirt road as she made her way toward Maria’s office. The sun was bright, but there was an undercurrent of tension in the air, one that only deepened with every step Ellie took. She didn’t know what kind of “old friends” were waiting for her at the gates, but she was ready to find out—no matter what it took.

Her pace quickened, a firm determination settling in. She had to get to Maria’s as fast as possible, her mind already racing through the possible outcomes. Whoever was waiting for her, they weren’t going to catch her off guard. Not again.

Ellie’s heart pounded a little harder as she reached the town hall, her eyes immediately catching sight of the five unfamiliar horses tied up near the entrance. It wasn’t unusual to see new faces in Jackson, but something about these men, their loud laughter and casual chatting with the locals, almost too friendly, made her instincts flare. She frowned, her eyes narrowing as she observed them from a distance. She didn’t recognize any of them, unlike some locals, who looked like old friends of them.

Her muscles tensed, and she approached the door cautiously. The sense of alertness she carried with her sharpened, and as she stepped inside, the change in lighting—moving from the bright, open day to the dimmer interior—momentarily threw her off balance. The light flickered across her vision, and for a split second, a memory flashed behind her eyes—Joel’s face, bloodied and broken, trusting the wrong people. Ellie’s breath hitched.

Shaking the image away, Ellie forced herself forward, moving quickly down the hall toward Maria’s office. She had to stay grounded, to focus. The goal was simple: get to Maria, find out what was going on. But the unease lingered, a gnawing feeling in her gut that something wasn’t right.

As she reached Maria’s office, Ellie nearly froze in her tracks. Sitting in the chair across from Maria was a teenage boy, one she almost didn’t recognize at first. Her stomach dropped.

Tommy was standing aside Maria, his face set in a hard, serious expression—no, not just serious—furious. His hands were folded tightly across his chest, the tension in his posture unmistakable.

Ellie’s pulse quickened. That teen… it couldn’t be…

Maria stood up the moment Ellie entered the room, her eyes meeting Ellie’s with a sense of urgency. Tommy, always on edge, turned to face her as well, his stance rigid and alert. Even his blinded eye seemed to be locked onto the stranger sitting in the chair, as if he couldn’t afford to let his guard down for a second.

Ellie’s breath caught in her throat when the boy turned to look at her. It was a face she hadn’t expected to see again, but the two unmistakable scars across his face brought everything rushing back—the theater, the beach, the desperation, and the knife she had pressed to his throat in a final attempt to force Abby into a fight.

Ellie’s pulse quickened as the memories clawed their way to the surface, and for a split second, she was back there—back at the theater in Seattle, and then later at the beach in Santa Barbara. That boy, unconscious and barely hanging on, had been Abby’s final anchor in a world that was falling apart around them. And Ellie had almost taken that away.

Maria’s voice broke through the heavy fog of Ellie’s thoughts, snapping her back to the present. “Ellie,” she greeted, her tone gentle but firm. “Thanks for coming so quickly.”

Ellie forced herself to breathe, to stay grounded in the now, but it wasn’t easy. Her eyes flickered back to the teen, and his gaze met hers—steady, calm, but carrying the weight of everything that had passed between them. The scars on his face weren't new, etched deep into his skin like the remnants of the cult he was once a part of in Seattle.

Maria’s voice cut through the silence, low but steady. “Ellie,” she said, gently, drawing her attention back. Her hand moved subtly, gesturing to the young man seated near her desk. “This is Lev.”

Her eyes lingered on Ellie’s face for a moment before continuing, choosing her next words with care. “He came with the men outside. Some of them were Fireflies... from a long time ago. They traveled a long way. From Santa Catalina.”
She paused there, giving Ellie just enough space for the words to sink in.

“For you.”

Ellie blinked, her mind struggling to catch up. For her? The thought twisted in her chest, a thousand questions bubbling up all at once. What was Lev doing here? Why now? And what did he want from her?

Lev stood, slow and deliberate, like even his breath might trigger something.
His eyes locked onto Ellie’s—and didn’t move.
No apology. No welcome. Just quiet recognition. Like two ghosts who had once haunted each other.

“I wasn’t sure you’d even look at me,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. “Not after... everything.”

Ellie’s posture didn’t shift, but something in her eyes flickered—recognition or recoil, even she couldn’t tell. Her breath caught in her throat for half a second before she forced it out. Lev saw that. He didn’t push.

“I remember the beach,” he added. “I remember what you looked like... and what you looked through me.”

He paused, and his voice softened.

“You looked like someone who didn’t know if they were dying... or if they’d just forgotten how to live.”

The room was still, Maria and Tommy holding their silence like a line not yet crossed.

Lev didn’t step closer, didn’t try to fill the space.

“I didn’t come to open wounds,” he said finally. “I came because... someone I trust thinks you deserve to hear something. About your immunity. About what comes next. About your mother.”

Ellie froze.

Not like a reaction—like a collapse.

The room compressed. The walls too close. Her lungs tightened as if someone had pulled the air straight out of her body with a syringe.

She blinked once. Then again. But her face didn’t move. Her jaw locked. Her fists clenched so tightly her nails dug into her palms, though she barely registered the sting.

“My... what?” she asked. But it wasn’t really a question—it was instinct, like a wounded animal spitting out the first breath it could find.

Lev hesitated, maybe realizing too late what he’d just dropped in front of her.

Ellie stepped back, just one step, but it was enough. Enough to make Maria shift in her seat, Tommy tense near the wall. Enough to feel like she was slipping again, like her body had moved but her mind hadn’t followed.

“No one...” she started, her voice cracking dry in her throat, “No one ever talks about her.”

She wasn’t spiraling yet. Not fully. But something was stirring—memories that weren’t really memories, just fragments, feelings, stories she’d clung to like old bones.

And now this boy—this kid she once nearly killed—was standing in front of her, saying he knew something. About her.

About Anna.

She didn’t sit down. Didn’t speak again.

She just stood there, staring at Lev, the heat rising behind her eyes. And all she could think was:

Why now? Why her? Why the fuck would anyone know about Anna?

And just beneath that:

Please don’t let this be a lie.

Lev shifted, his fingers twitching at his side before he reached into his coat pocket.

“I came because someone believes you can help,” he said, voice calm but firmer now—like he was repeating something he’d memorized on long miles of horseback and silence. “Dr. Ethan. He’s a Firefly—still. But not the way you remember them. He’s building something different in Santa Catalina. A team. A lab. Not a militia.”

His gaze passed from Maria to Tommy, then slowly returned to Ellie.

“He knows about you, Ellie. About your immunity. About what you’ve survived. He thinks you could be part of something that could stop the infection from spreading. Without killing anyone, not even you.”

A pause. Long enough to let that last sentence land.

“He’s not asking for your life. That’s the point. He believes studying how your body lives with it—not removing anything from you—is the key.”

Lev’s voice softened, just slightly.

“He didn’t send Abby,” Lev said, his voice low. “She didn’t think you'd listen to her. Said it’d do more harm than good.”

He hesitated. Looked at Ellie like he wasn’t sure she’d survive what came next.

“But Ethan said you deserved the choice.”

A beat.

“Because this isn’t just about immunity anymore. It’s about Anna.”

That hit.

Ellie’s head lifted, her eyes narrowing, lips parting—but no sound came.

Lev reached again into his coat, slower this time. Careful. He pulled out a worn, time-yellowed polaroid, held it in both hands like it was breakable.

“He said this belonged to your mother. Ethan knew her.”

Lev held the photograph out, arms extended but steady, voice low like he didn’t want to startle whatever fragile thread held Ellie together.

Ellie didn’t move. Her breath had stalled somewhere in her chest, trapped between disbelief and something older—something buried.

Maria noticed.

She rose quietly from her chair, stepping between them—not in fear, not in caution, but with that same composed gravity she used when holding a fence steady against the wind.

She didn’t say anything as she took the polaroid from Lev’s hands.

Her eyes dropped to the image. And the change was immediate. Her mouth parted, brows drawn in disbelief—not doubt, not suspicion. Recognition.

The woman in the photo was Ellie.

Not exactly. But close enough to make Maria’s chest tighten. The nose, the chin, the quiet weight behind her stare.

“Jesus,” Tommy murmured, stepping closer when Maria turned the photo toward him. He didn’t even finish the word—his voice cut off like the breath had left him.

He leaned in, his eyes scanning the woman’s features, then flicking toward Ellie, who still hadn’t moved.

“That... that could be her,” he said, slower now. “I mean...”

Maria flipped the photo, reading the back. The handwriting was clean, curling, not rushed. It was familiar, though she couldn’t place how.

She glanced at Ellie again—Ellie, who hadn’t looked away. Her eyes locked on the photograph in Maria’s hands, wide and glassy, but sharp now. Awake.

“Here,” Maria said gently, reaching forward.

Only then did Ellie step forward. Her hand shook as she took the picture from Maria’s fingers.

The silence was complete.

Her eyes dropped to the photo. And it hit.

Not like a slap. Like a blade to the gut.

It wasn’t just resemblance. It was identity, stolen across time. The same stare. The same weight behind it. The kind of eyes that knew what it meant to lose everything before even being old enough to hold it.

And the handwriting on the back.

And that’s when Ellie froze.

There weren’t many words. Just a short sentence. The kind someone writes quickly, but with meaning.

But the handwriting—God, the handwriting—wasn’t just familiar. It was the same. The same loops, the same tilt, the same ink-heavy downstrokes from the letter she’d carried for years. The letter left behind on her first day alive.

And at the bottom, a single dash. One initial.

"-A"

Her stomach dropped.

No breath. No noise. Just that tight ringing in her ears, growing sharper by the second.

Her thumb dug across the signature, desperate to blur it. As if denial could be stronger than ink. But the pen had bled too deep. The truth wasn’t going anywhere—and neither was the wound it opened.

And neither was the truth, if it was true.

“This isn’t...” Her voice cracked, a dry rasp clawing up her throat.

She looked at Lev with something between accusation and desperation. “You didn’t fake this? He didn’t fucking make this just to pull me back in?”

“No,” Lev said, stepping forward, his tone steady. “Ethan wouldn’t do that. He said you’d know it was real.”

But Ellie wasn’t hearing him anymore.

She was gone.

Gone into the letter from her mother buried in a box under her bed. Gone into the lines she memorized as a kid—into “you make me so proud, my girl.”

Her mother’s voice. Her mother’s pen. Her mother’s name signed with a dash and a goddamn A.

The pressure in her chest turned molten.

She crammed the polaroid into her jacket like it burned to touch it, then turned. No words. Just movement.

“Ellie—” Maria called.

But she was already gone—boots pounding like war drums, eyes wide and unreachable.

She stormed past Tommy, past the Firefly faces waiting outside the hall, her boots heavy against the wood floor, heart pounding like she was hunted again.

She didn’t know what was real. But she had to see.

She had to get home. To that letter. To that signature. To the last proof she still trusted.

___

The front door slammed open so hard the frame shuddered.

“Ellie?” Dina’s voice called from somewhere deeper in the house, laced with confusion, but Ellie didn’t answer. Her boots slammed across the floor like warning shots. Jacket still on. Breath still ragged. JJ’s voice floated past her ears, distant and meaningless. Every sound was static. Every thought was a siren.

She was already halfway up the stairs.

Two steps at a time. Hand on the rail. Breath ragged, chest burning. Not from the run—but from the knowing. From the terror that maybe—just maybe—it was true.

She kicked the door open so hard it ricocheted off the wall and rattled the picture frame beside it. It didn’t close—it hung there, stunned like everything else she touched.

The room was still. Cold light through the curtains. The quiet of a place that had known too much silence.

She crossed to the dresser, yanked open the second drawer down—the one she hadn’t touched in weeks.

Socks. A folded shirt. Junk she told herself she’d sort one day.

She tore through it like it owed her something. None of it mattered. She would’ve burned the whole drawer if it meant reaching that letter faster.

Fingers shaking, she found the worn piece of paper wrapped inside the edge of an old flannel—one she couldn’t bring herself to throw out even after it stopped fitting right. The paper was folded, aged at the edges, already soft from being opened too many times.

Ellie dropped to her knees, landing hard against the wooden floor. Her fingers clutched the letter like it might dissolve if she wasn’t careful.

She unfolded it.

The words were already burned into her memory. She didn’t need to read them. She went straight to the end.

“-A.”

Same curl.

Same pen pressure.

Same hesitation in the final stroke, like whoever wrote it wasn’t sure they’d ever get to sign their name again.

Her throat tightened.

She fumbled the polaroid out with shaking fingers, dropping it once before catching it with the back of her wrist. She slammed it next to the letter. Side by side. Identical. Undeniable. The ghosts were matching signatures now.

It was the same.

She didn’t need Maria. She didn’t need Tommy. She didn’t need Lev.

It was her.

Anna.

Her mother.

She looked just like her. Same face. Same goddamn eyes. All this time Ellie thought she came from nothing, from silence, from a name on a paper and a voice in her head that never had a real sound.

And now she was staring at her own face thirty years ago, in the hands of a man she didn’t know. A man who knew.

A sob clawed at her chest but never made it out.

Instead, Ellie sat there—knees digging into the floor, the two pieces of paper trembling in her hands, her heart thudding like a warning bell.

She didn’t cry.

Not yet.

She just whispered, almost inaudibly:

“Why the fuck didn’t anyone tell me…”

Then—

A sob.

“You let me rot… All of you…”

But not from pain. From dislocation.

Her eyes scanned like prey in a cage—seeing no exit, only predators. Even the window looked like a mouth that could swallow her. Every corner wrong. Every shadow too bright. The walls too close. The floor too far.

Her mother had been real.

She wasn’t nothing. She wasn’t no one. She had a name and a face and a voice that lived in ink and ghosted memories she never got to hear. And this Ethan—this fucking stranger—had known her. Held that memory. Held it long enough to send it back like a message in a bottle.

And suddenly Ellie wasn’t in Jackson anymore.

She was five.

She was thirteen.

She was fifteen and bleeding out in a hospital.

She was sixteen screaming Joel’s name.

She was on the beach in Santa Barbara choking on sea salt and vengeance.

She was everywhere at once—and nowhere.

A full-body tremor hit her, and she flung herself into the corner like the room had turned against her. Knees tight to her chest, fists curled into the denim like she could claw her way out of her own skin.

The door creaked.

Footsteps.

Ellie didn’t hear the words.

She heard movement.

And that’s all it took.

“Don’t—!” she barked suddenly, her voice raw, snapping like a whip as her head jerked up toward the door. “Don’t touch me!”

Dina froze, breath hitching at the sight. It wasn’t Ellie sitting there—it was someone hollowed out from the inside, trapped in a body still trying to breathe.

Behind her, Maria’s breath caught.

“Ellie,” Dina whispered, her voice breaking. “It’s me. I just—”

“I said don’t fucking touch me!” Ellie snarled, pressing herself harder into the corner, her arms shielding her chest, her eyes wild and gone.

She didn’t see Dina.

She saw a hospital room.

She saw masked faces.

A blade. A scream. A hand reaching for her arm.

She growled low in her throat, like something primal trying to protect the last flicker of its mind.

Maria stepped in, voice low and measured. “Ellie. It’s okay. We’re not here to hurt you.”

Ellie flinched at her voice—eyes darting like she was trying to locate the threat.

Her lips parted, her breath sharp. “You lied... all of you...”

Dina knelt down, not moving closer—just making herself small. “We didn’t know. I swear, Ellie. Please look at me.”

But Ellie couldn’t.

She was spiraling too deep. Her body trembled in short, jarring spasms. Her hands wouldn’t stop moving—clawing at the bedframe, her sleeves, her own arms.

She mumbled something—too low to catch. Then again.

Louder this time.

“All dead,” she whispered.

Her voice cracked.

“All dead... all light... I told you no... no more... I told you... stop...”

Then silence.

Her eyes unfocused. Her limbs went rigid. Her breathing shallowed, high and thin and wrong.

“Maria—” Dina turned her head, panicked. “She’s not coming back—”

“I’ll get the medic,” Maria said, already moving.

Dina crawled forward an inch, just enough to reach Ellie’s line of sight, tears slipping from her eyes.

“Ellie. Please,” she whispered. “Stay with me. Come back.”

But Ellie had already left.

___

Dina didn’t move.

She stayed crouched near the door, watching Ellie dissolve in front of her, trying to breathe around the knot forming in her own throat.

Ellie rocked slightly, arms clenched tightly around her knees, her entire body rigid and shaking. Her lips were moving, but the words came in gasps and fragments, like static breaking through a broken radio.

“No... don’t... I said no... they said I had to... no, Joel, please...”

Dina crawled forward just enough to close the distance between them to a few feet—not too close. She knew Ellie would see that as a threat.

“Ellie,” she said gently, her voice cracking. “It’s Dina. Look at me, babe. I’m right here. You’re safe.”

But Ellie didn’t react. Her eyes darted around the room like she was searching for exits that weren’t there.

Her hands twitched. Her fingers scratched at her jeans, her arms, her scalp. Every breath she took came out faster, sharper, wrong.

Dina tried again.

“Ellie... look at me. Please. It’s just us. It’s our room. JJ’s downstairs with Robin. No one’s here but me, okay? You’re home.”

Still nothing. Ellie flinched at her own shadow on the wall as the curtains moved. A soft whimper left her lips.

Dina’s voice rose, desperation leaking in. “El, please, baby, look at me. You’re safe. You’re not there anymore.”

She crawled closer—just a foot—and froze when Ellie suddenly jerked back like she’d been touched by fire.

“Don’t!” Ellie cried out, her voice suddenly sharp, panicked, hoarse.

Dina felt something splinter inside her—like watching the person she loved fall through ice, and knowing she couldn’t swim fast enough to save her.

She backed up an inch, hands raised. “Okay, okay, I’m not touching you. I promise. I’m staying right here.”

Ellie’s eyes found her for half a second. Just one flicker. Then gone again.

Her breathing hitched. Her mouth moved.

“I can’t breathe,” she whispered, voice thin and brittle. “Why can’t I breathe—why—”

“You are breathing,” Dina said quickly, wiping at her face. She hadn’t realized she was crying. “You’re breathing, Ellie. Just try to match me, okay? In... and out. In—”

“I said stop... stop it... I don’t want to go... I’m not ready, I’m not ready, Joel, please—don’t make me go—”

Dina sobbed, pressing a hand to her own chest. “He’s gone, baby. Joel’s not here. No one’s taking you anywhere. It’s just me.”

But Ellie was too far. She was curling inward now, like her body wanted to disappear completely. Her lips were blueing at the edges. Her hands clawed again at her scalp, pulling strands of her own hair.

Dina surged forward without thinking.

“Ellie, please—”

But the moment she reached out, Ellie lashed out, a snarl breaking from her throat, her arm swinging wide and wild, missing Dina’s face by inches.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” she snapped, her voice full of static and fire and something feral. It wasn’t fear. It was survival dressed in blood and memory.

Dina stumbled back, breath catching in her throat, shaking now too. “Okay,” she whispered. “Okay. I won’t. I promise. I’m sorry.”

Ellie trembled harder. Her entire body jolted like electricity was pulsing through her nerves without order.

That’s when the footsteps came back.

Fast. Heavy.

The door burst open.

Maria stepped in first, the medic just behind her. The medic barely crossed the threshold before his bag hit the floor. One look at Ellie and he dropped to a crouch—not out of confidence, but because this looked less like medicine and more like watching someone drown in front of him.

“Is she responding to your voice?” he asked quickly, eyes never leaving Ellie’s hunched form.

Dina shook her head, tears streaming. “She—she was talking at first. But not to me. I tried—she tried to hit me—she didn’t mean to—”

The medic’s eyes flicked from Dina to Ellie, his expression unreadable, but there was uncertainty in his gaze. He crouched closer, his movements slow and cautious, his eyes scanning Ellie’s rigid form.

“Ellie,” he said softly, his voice low, trying to ground her, but his hands stayed back. He didn’t know what he was dealing with yet. This wasn’t just a panic attack or a standard dissociative episode. This was something different.

Her body jerked violently at his words. Her head snapped toward him, her eyes wide, but unfocused, like they were seeing right through him.

“No...” Ellie muttered, voice distant, caught in the whirlpool of her mind. “I’m not... no... I can’t...”

The medic's brows furrowed in confusion. He'd seen panic. He'd seen people spiral into trauma, yes—but this? This was something else. Her eyes weren’t just locked in fear; they were somewhere else. Her words didn’t match her body. Her breathing wasn’t just fast; it was disjointed, erratic, and unnerving.

Maria, who had been standing near the doorway, stepped forward with a sharp intake of breath. She had seen Ellie go through hell—witnessed her survive battles that would’ve torn anyone else apart—but never this. This was something new.

“Ellie...” Maria said softly, walking toward her, but stopping just short of reaching out. She knew better than to push her. “Please. Come back to me.”

Ellie’s head twitched in her direction, but it was like the words didn’t penetrate. Her whole body shook, her hands clutching at her sides, pulling at the fabric of her clothes like she was trying to escape her own skin.

The medic looked at Maria, his voice quiet with hesitation. “I’ve never seen... her like this.”

Maria’s chest tightened. “I know,” she whispered. “Neither have I.”

The medic swallowed, glancing at Dina for a moment before looking back at Ellie. “She’s... not responding to anything. Her body’s still moving, but she’s somewhere else. I—I need to get her under control, but... if this is something deeper... if it's not just a panic attack...”

His words trailed off as he looked down at the syringe in his hands, still unsure.

Dina was kneeling beside Ellie now, her hand outstretched but held just inches from Ellie’s trembling arm. She glanced at Maria, her voice cracking, barely a whisper. “What do we do? What do we do if she won’t... come back?”

Maria, her heart a weight in her chest, met Dina’s eyes. She didn’t have the answers. No one did.

“She’ll come back,” Maria said, though she wasn’t entirely sure.

The medic bit his lip, his eyes scanning Ellie, uncertain, still hesitating.

Ellie’s breathing became shallow, desperate, as if she was gasping for air through thick smoke. “I’m not...” she murmured, almost inaudibly. “I’m not the same... I’m not me...”

The medic’s face tensed—caught between duty and dread. This wasn’t a wound he could stitch shut. This was a mind unraveling in real time. He needed to act, but how? Her body was here, but her mind was miles away. He could sedate her, yes. But if this wasn’t panic—if this was something deeper, something psychological—

He clenched his jaw.

He glanced at Maria and Dina again, then made his decision.

“I’m going to sedate her,” he said, voice firm now, though the doubt still lingered behind his words. “We need her calm before we can figure out what’s happening.”

Ellie’s body jerked again, and she began to sob, her head tilting back slightly as her mouth opened, but no sound came. Her hands were twitching violently, unable to hold still.

Dina was holding herself together by a thread. She turned to Maria, eyes pleading for some answer, some reassurance.

“I’ll help,” Maria said, voice low but steady. “We have to get her through this.”

The medic nodded, kneeling beside Ellie and carefully positioning himself to administer the sedative. His hands were precise, but even they trembled slightly as he tried to steady Ellie.

Ellie’s gaze snapped toward him, her eyes wild and filled with raw fear. “Please... don’t leave me... don’t...”

Dina reached out, but just as she did, Ellie let out a desperate, low scream, more guttural than anything she had ever heard from her. “No!”

Maria and the medic quickly moved in, their hands guiding her gently as Ellie tried to push them away, her body resisting, panic taking over in frantic, animalistic motions.

“Shh,” Maria whispered softly, her own heart cracking. “It’s going to be okay, Ellie. We’re here.”

But Ellie wasn’t listening. Ellie wasn’t hearing them anymore.

The medic carefully inserted the needle into Ellie’s arm, his breath steady but strained. The sedative would take a few moments.

“Stay with her,” he told Maria. “Don’t let her slip away.”

Dina’s hand remained firmly on her shoulder, her voice breaking as she whispered through her tears, “Please, Ellie. Come back to us. Please.”

Ellie’s body began to soften beneath their hands, the sedative slowing her breaths into something closer to steady. Her limbs, once coiled like live wires, now hung slack. Her eyes fluttered shut—not in peace, but in defeat, like her mind had finally given up screaming.

She murmured once more, something unintelligible, her lips barely moving.

Then she was still.

Dina exhaled for the first time in what felt like forever. Her fingers brushed sweat-damp strands of hair from Ellie’s forehead. The touch lingered.

“She’s out,” the medic confirmed, voice low. “No dreams. She’ll be fully asleep soon. Give her a few hours, maybe more.”

Dina blinked rapidly, brushing her tears away, nodding wordlessly. Her hands hovered as if afraid to leave Ellie even now.

“We shouldn’t leave her on the floor,” Maria said quietly.

Together, they moved—slow, gentle. The medic supported her upper body while Maria and Dina lifted from either side. Ellie didn’t resist. She couldn’t. Her body moved like cloth, weight without tension.

They placed her on the bed, the sheets still unmade, the fabric cool against her back. Dina pulled the blanket over her, careful not to brush her bandaged arm.

Maria stepped away, her eyes scanning the room.

That’s when she saw them—the polaroid and the crumpled letter, both on the floor where Ellie had thrown them in her spiral.

She crouched, picked them up silently.

The letter was familiar now. Maria had read it once—long ago—when Joel had brought Ellie to Jackson for the first time. But the photo... the photo was new.

Maria turned it over slowly.

"-A"

She held both items in her hand like they were evidence. Not of a crime, but of a truth they hadn’t been ready for. A truth that had detonated in Ellie’s chest.

She laid them on the nightstand like relics at an altar. As if the next time Ellie opened her eyes, she’d need to remember that this was real. That it wasn’t a nightmare stitched together from guilt.

“She’ll want to read it again,” Maria murmured.

Dina nodded, her voice catching. “Yeah. She’ll... she’ll need to.”

The medic stood now, brushing his palms on his thighs like he was grounding himself. “I’ll stay nearby in case anything changes,” he said. “We’ve got a few hours of calm. After that… we need to be ready.”

Maria turned toward him.

“Ready about what?”

The medic’s eyes flicked toward Ellie’s sleeping form. “About what happens when she wakes up. About her patrols. About her role here.”

Dina’s head dipped, her hands still resting on the edge of the bed. “You mean about keeping her from hurting herself again.”

“She’s not safe out there right now,” the medic said gently. “Not with what just happened. You saw it.”

Maria didn’t argue.

Neither did Dina.

They knew.

The medic grabbed his bag and moved quietly toward the door. “Let her rest. I’ll come back before sundown.”

The door shut behind him with the soft click of finality.

Maria looked down at Ellie again—her chest rising and falling in the rhythm of the drugged calm. Her face slack, tears dried on her skin. The same girl who had dragged herself back from war. The same girl who still hadn’t stopped fighting.

Maria sat on the armchair across the room, resting her hands on her knees.

“Tonight,” Maria said, more to the walls than anyone else. “We figure out how to keep her alive.”

Dina didn’t respond. She just leaned forward and placed a slow kiss on Ellie’s temple, her lips trembling against the still warmth of her skin.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered.

And the room fell quiet.

Outside, the world carried on.

But inside, something had shifted.

The girl who thought she came from nothing now held her mother’s name in her hands like a ticking bomb. And nothing—no patrol, no routine, no lie—would ever protect her from what came next.

Chapter Text

Ellie surfaced slowly, as if rising from deep water. Her limbs felt heavy, slack, like they didn’t belong to her. A faint pressure pulsed in her skull, dull and rhythmic, and her mouth was dry, lips parted slightly against the pillow. She blinked once, twice, her lashes catching in the crust of sleep. The light seeping through the curtains was soft, diffused, yet still too much—it made her squint and turn her head into the mattress with a slow, instinctive motion, like a child hiding from the day.

The air in the room felt still, too still. No voices, no footsteps. Just the faint creak of wood settling somewhere in the house.

She stayed like that for a moment, not moving, listening to the silence pressing around her. Her body remembered before she did. There was a strange ache in her jaw, a tremble in her legs, a soreness in her ribs—as if she’d been holding something in, something that had wrung her out completely. Her hands twitched against the blanket, and that small movement made her throat tighten.

It was only then, through the fog in her head, that she realized: something had happened.

Something bad.

Her chest tightened, her breath hitching as her mind reached, blindly, for the edges of memory. But all she could grasp were flashes—Maria’s voice, Lev’s eyes, the word immunity—and then darkness, thick and absolute.

She didn’t know where she had gone in her mind, but she hadn’t been here.

Not really.

Not until now.

And even now, she wasn’t sure she wanted to be.

There was warmth beside her.

Ellie didn’t need to open her eyes to know someone was there. It was in the shift of the mattress, the way the air moved—not colder, not warmer, just... occupied. Present. A quiet weight next to hers. The kind that didn’t speak with movement, only presence. Familiar. Like a campfire you forgot you lit.

She turned her head slightly, slow and uncertain, her neck stiff with sleep. Her eyes fluttered open again, just barely. That’s when she saw it—dark curls, a sliver of a cheekbone, the faint outline of knees drawn up, hands folded loosely in a lap. Dina.

Of course it was Dina.

She looked like she hadn’t moved in a long while.

Ellie’s heart twisted, not in panic, not in fear, but something quieter. Something that hurt without warning.

Dina didn’t say anything at first. She just reached out, gently, her fingers brushing back a strand of hair from Ellie’s damp temple. Her touch was soft. Familiar. But hesitant. Like she was afraid Ellie might vanish again if she touched her too firmly.

Then, finally, Dina’s voice broke the silence. Soft. Low. Threaded with the kind of tenderness that made Ellie want to curl into herself and disappear.

“Hey.”

Just that. One word, thick with meaning.

Ellie blinked, her lips parting slightly, but she couldn’t summon any sound. The dryness in her throat, the fog in her mind—it held her down.

“You’re okay,” Dina said, barely more than a whisper now, like they were in a room full of ghosts. “Just rest.”

Ellie let her eyes close again. Not because she wanted to sleep, but because she didn’t know how to stay in this moment. She didn’t feel okay. Not even close. But Dina’s voice felt like something real to anchor to. Something she hadn’t had the day before.

And she held on to it.

Even if it hurt.

Ellie blinked again, forcing her eyes to stay open this time. The light in the room was too soft to hurt, but still, it unsettled her—like it didn’t belong. Like she didn’t belong. Her gaze drifted toward the figure beside her, and for a moment, her vision wavered.

Dina was sitting stiffly now, not leaning in the way she used to. Not curled toward her, not folded around Ellie’s pain. Just… sitting. Still. Like a shadow trying not to move.

Ellie’s eyes found her face, searching for something familiar. But Dina’s expression was guarded—kind, yes, but distant. That kind of distant Ellie couldn’t name. The kind that made her throat feel tight.

Her mind tried to catch up to the moment, but it was like reaching for smoke. She remembered… voices. Maria’s, maybe. Tommy, sharp and angry. Lev—Lev’s story, and something about her mom. And then—nothing. Just a collapse. Like her body had slammed a door shut on her own mind and locked her out.

She didn’t remember the spiral. She only remembered not being here anymore.

Dina’s voice broke the silence, gentle but too measured, like every word had been practiced before it left her lips. “Maria and Tommy stopped by,” she said. “The medic came too. He gave you something to help you sleep.”

Her hand touched Ellie’s forearm, light as breath. It lingered for just a second before pulling back again.

Ellie tried to speak, but her throat was dry, the words caught somewhere between her chest and her mouth.

“The medic… he made some suggestions,” Dina continued, still avoiding her eyes. “Just until you’re feeling better.”

Ellie blinked slowly. The fog in her head was lifting, but what remained behind it was heavier. Better? She didn’t feel sick. She felt gone.

“What… changes?” she managed, voice low and scratchy.

Dina shifted in her seat. Just slightly. “You need rest,” she said, a quiet firmness edging into her tone. “No more patrols. Not for now.”

Ellie stared at her, trying to find something beneath the surface of her words. But Dina didn’t flinch. She held the silence carefully.

“Maria agreed. So did Tommy,” Dina added. “We all did.”

Ellie's chest tightened, guilt creeping in like a slow burn. Patrols were all she had to feel useful again. Being out there, doing something real—it gave her a reason to get up in the morning. And now that, too, was slipping away.

“I don’t need rest,” she muttered, more to herself than to Dina. Her voice cracked with the effort. “That’s not what I need.”

“You do,” Dina said, the softness in her voice beginning to harden. Not angry. Just tired. Tired in a way Ellie didn’t recognize yet. “You’ve been pushing yourself, Ellie. Ever since… everything.”

She didn’t say Santa Barbara. She didn’t have to. The name was already a wound under Ellie’s skin.

Ellie turned her head away, eyes drifting toward the curtains, where sunlight slipped through like it didn’t know any better. That light felt cruel.

Santa Barbara.

The boat. The blood. Abby’s face—thin, desperate, not angry. Just hollow. Ellie’s hands trembling as she reached for her. That storm crashing into them like punishment. The weight of the machete. The silence when she let go.

She could still hear the voice that wasn’t hers but lived in her head.

I’m supposed to die for a cure.

I was born to be sacrificed.

Not for peace. Not for love. For purpose.

She swallowed, the taste of it bitter and too real.

Dina’s voice reached her again, quieter now, but steadier. “You haven’t stopped, El. Since you got back. You’ve been running on empty. You just… you don’t see it.”

Ellie didn't respond. Couldn’t. The words were crawling into her, but none of them felt like they belonged to her. What she wanted to say was: I don’t want to stop, because when I stop, everything breaks. But she didn’t say that. She wasn’t sure if Dina would hear it the way she meant.

And Dina—Dina sat beside her, hands folded now in her lap, a little too carefully. Like she was keeping them still on purpose. Like she didn’t trust them to act naturally anymore.

Dina shifted slightly, her fingers still resting on Ellie’s arm, the pressure featherlight—like she was trying not to spook something fragile. “It’s not a punishment,” she murmured, her voice lower now, quieter. “Maria just wants to keep you close. Give you some lighter stuff to focus on—communal things. Just until you feel a little stronger.”

Her hand stayed where it was, but Ellie could sense the caution in it. The pause in her touch. As if Dina wasn’t sure what Ellie might do. Or maybe, what she might feel.

Ellie didn’t say anything. A slow, bitter warmth spread through her chest—communal tasks. It sounded like they were finding ways to keep her busy. To keep her visible. To keep an eye on her.

“I can help,” Dina continued, almost too quickly. “We talked about it—me, Maria... Tommy. Everyone’s just trying to help you feel like you’re still part of this place.”

Ellie gave a slow, shallow nod. She didn’t trust her voice yet.

But something inside her clenched.

She used to wake before dawn, boots laced before the sun hit the snow. Patrol rifle across her back, routes memorized, danger expected. It made sense. It had purpose.

But this? This felt like being handed a paintbrush when the world was still on fire.

Dina’s eyes flicked over her face, searching. “Please, El... You’ve been through so much. You don’t have to carry it all alone.”

There was a pause.

Ellie wanted to believe her. She wanted to believe that this was still a “we.” That together was still something they could claim.

But something in Dina’s voice was off. Just barely. As if she’d said that line too many times already. As if she needed Ellie to believe it more than she believed it herself.

Ellie didn’t answer. Her thoughts were still somewhere else—somewhere between Maria’s office and the place her mind had broken open. That terrifying stretch of time she didn’t remember but somehow felt—like a bruise inside her skull.

She tried to force her thoughts back into the room, into Dina’s voice. Dina was still speaking. Softer now. Careful.

“And... there’s something else.”

Her fingers moved again, tracing the inside of Ellie’s wrist. Gentle. Familiar. Too familiar.

But Ellie didn’t miss the fact that Dina hadn’t leaned closer. She hadn’t moved to hold her.

“You were painting at the farmhouse. Remember?” Dina’s voice was thin with effort—like she was tiptoeing over a minefield. “Before... everything. It helped then.”

Ellie’s thoughts slipped backward, uninvited.

Golden fields. JJ in the grass. Mornings spent sitting by the window with a brush in her hand, not because she had something to say—but because she didn’t. That silence had been different. It hadn’t been haunted.

“I don’t know,” Ellie muttered, voice rough. “I haven’t touched anything since…”

She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to.

Dina gave her wrist a soft squeeze, then let go. “Just try,” she said, carefully keeping her tone light. “Even if it’s just for a few minutes. I can help if you want. Or I can leave you alone, if that’s easier.”

Ellie blinked hard. Her throat felt too tight.

“And… maybe,” Dina added after a long pause, “you could start writing again too. Your journal.”

That hit harder than Ellie expected. The journal. It was still buried somewhere in the dresser drawer, shoved under old shirts, the pages warped from rain and time. She hadn’t touched it since coming back. Since realizing that writing things down didn’t make them less real—it just made them hurt slower.

“I don’t know if I can,” Ellie whispered, her voice barely audible. “There’s too much.”

Dina didn’t say anything for a moment. Then her hand landed gently on Ellie’s shoulder. It was steady. Measured. But it didn’t linger.

“You don’t have to do it all at once,” she said. “Just… take little pieces. That’s all anyone’s asking.”

Ellie finally turned to look at her, eyes meeting hers for the first time. And for a moment, she let herself pretend—pretend that Dina’s presence meant safety. That this quiet room wasn’t soaked in the memory of yesterday.

That maybe she could come back from wherever her mind had taken her.

She gave a faint nod. “Okay,” she said, though she wasn’t sure who she was saying it to.

Dina stood slowly, her movements smooth but tired. She reached out and brushed a strand of hair from Ellie’s face, the gesture automatic. Her fingers paused for a beat near Ellie’s cheek—but only for a beat—then dropped away.

“I’m gonna let you rest now,” she said. “Just… think about it, okay?”

Ellie nodded again, softer this time. Her body eased back against the cushions, boneless and exhausted. She listened as Dina’s footsteps padded across the room and disappeared down the hall. The bedroom door clicked softly shut.

And then the quiet swallowed everything.

Ellie lay there, staring at the ceiling, her fingers twitching absently against the blanket. She could still feel the ghost of Dina’s touch on her arm. It burned, somehow. Not from heat—but from distance.

The weight of everything hovered over her like fog, thick and unmoving.

She didn’t know how to rest.

She didn’t know how to stop.

Every time she did, the memories surged like floodwater—Joel’s hands, Abby’s scream, the hospital lights, the knife, the beach. Lev’s eyes. Her own voice, crying for someone who wasn’t listening.

Still, her body was too tired to fight it anymore.

And so, with her heart beating too loud in the stillness, Ellie let the fog take her.

Not into sleep, not really. Just into the kind of silence that blurred the edge of time.

___

Ellie’s days blurred together.

Not in the way they had during long patrols or quiet nights on the farm, but in a slower, more suffocating rhythm. One that wasn’t hers. One that had been given to her—softly, gently, with kind voices and worried eyes, like she was a child too fragile to decide her own pace.

She obeyed. What else could she do?

They had stripped her of her rifle, her patrol routes, her early mornings in the frost-bitten woods. Said it was temporary. Said it was for her own good. Said everyone agreed. Maria. Tommy. Dina. Everyone but her.

And she hadn’t argued. Because part of her knew—if she said no, she might spiral again. And this time, maybe she wouldn’t come back.

So she stayed in bed longer than she wanted to, the sunlight leaking through the curtains a little too gentle, a little too staged. She stared at the ceiling until her thoughts tangled, or her chest tightened, or her hands started shaking and she had to move just to remember she still could.

The mornings, once filled with direction, now passed like water through cracked hands.

Without her duties, she felt… nothing. Not idle. Not lazy. But useless. Disconnected from the world beyond the walls of her own mind. She knew it was fear that had guided their decision—but it felt like punishment. Like being wrapped in cotton she couldn’t claw her way out of. She wasn’t resting. She was being contained.

And that scared her more than anything.

Her mind had turned on her, and now everyone else was following its lead.

Lev and the Fireflies—those Fireflies—were still in Jackson. Their presence wasn’t discussed much, but Ellie felt it, saw the sideways glances, heard the quiet. Their tents near the edge of town were a constant reminder of everything she had tried to forget. Maria hadn’t decided what to do with them yet. No one had. And that uncertainty gnawed at Ellie more than she let on.

She kept her distance. Even from Lev.

At home, she tried to help. Tried to earn her keep, even though no one said it that way. She swept. Folded clothes. Cleaned dishes before anyone could ask. If her hands were busy, maybe her thoughts wouldn’t creep up and strangle her. Dina never stopped her. But she never asked either.

Sometimes they cooked side by side. Chopping vegetables. Preparing stew. The silence was companionable, but underneath it, Ellie felt something missing—something she didn’t have words for. They didn’t talk much during those moments. No jokes. No teasing. Just motion. Just heat and knives and time slipping by.

On better days, she tried to be with JJ. Tried to play. Tried to be the mama he called her without hesitation. But even joy felt dangerous. A minefield of sound and movement.

His cries were the worst.

The slightest whimper could freeze her mid-step. A loud wail would slam her heart against her ribs, her breath catching as her vision tunneled. She’d stand there, eyes wide, rooted to the floor, unable to move or speak or breathe. Sometimes it lasted seconds. Sometimes longer.

Dina had seen it. Robin too. They never said anything. They just moved past her, gently, quietly, scooping up JJ, calming him, never making her feel small—but always making her feel like a ghost in her own home.

Ellie hated herself for that. For how her body could betray her without warning. For how she could still scare the people she loved, even without lifting a hand.

The shame sat in her gut like a stone. Unmovable. Cold.

To fill the silence, she drew. She hadn’t touched her journal—not yet—but she picked up a pencil again. Animals, mostly. A cat she saw in the yard. A crow on the fence. A deer once, from memory. She kept the drawings hidden. They weren’t meant to be seen. They weren’t about expression. They were about surviving the quiet.

And there were the community dinners. Her new assignment.

Dina and Robin cooked. Ellie helped serve. She stood behind a table, ladling stew, handing out bowls, saying little. It wasn’t what she used to do—scouting, tracking, killing—but at least it was something. At least no one looked at her with fear when she was holding a ladle instead of a knife.

Sometimes, people smiled at her. Said thank you. Called her by name. That helped. A little.

But it didn’t stop the voice inside that said she was being babysat. Managed. Handled. Like everyone was walking on eggshells around the ticking time bomb of her mind. And maybe they were.

Because even Ellie didn’t trust herself.

There were moments of peace. Brief ones. A flash of laughter from JJ. The smell of soup warming over the fire. A morning when she held a pencil steady for the full hour without shaking.

But those moments never lasted.

What always returned was the fear—the knowledge that something had broken inside her, and that no one, not even she, knew how deep the crack went.

And in the silence that followed the dinners, the drawing, the chores… the worst truth always returned.

She wasn’t healing. She was being kept safe.

Not from the world.

But from herself.

___

It had been three weeks since her episode.

Three weeks since her mind had broken open like ice under pressure, dragging her under while Dina, Maria, and a stranger with steady hands tried to hold her down long enough for the panic to pass.

Since then, the days had melted into one another, each one warmer, greener—early summer settling gently over Jackson, even as Ellie felt frozen in place.

She wasn’t allowed to patrol. Wasn’t trusted to be alone with JJ. And truthfully, she didn’t trust herself either. Not yet. Not after what she’d almost done. What she could still do, if it happened again.

So she stayed close. Kept to the routine. Ran errands for Dina—small things, easy things. Things that kept her moving without requiring her to think too much. Bread from the bakery. Dried herbs from the greenhouse. Extra soap from the supply shed behind the stables. Nothing that would take her far. Nothing that left her alone too long.

Today was one of those days. She walked the path out of habit, not urgency. The sun was high, warm on her arms. The kind of day she might’ve once called beautiful, if the word hadn’t started to feel foreign in her mouth.

As she passed near the training field, the sound of thudding arrows drew her attention.

She slowed.

A small group of teenagers stood in loose formation, bows in hand. Most were younger than she’d been when Joel taught her how to fire. Some barely old enough to hold the bow straight. They took turns lining up at a set of straw targets. Some arrows missed entirely, skimming off into the dirt. Others thudded softly into hay, crooked but solid.

Ellie stopped without meaning to.

There was something about it—watching them struggle with stances, laugh at missed shots, shake out their wrists. It pulled at her in a way she didn’t expect. A memory, maybe. Or a phantom muscle tensing in her back, eager to correct them. Joel’s voice echoed faintly in her mind, teasing and patient. Draw, breathe, hold, release. You’re not breaking a window—don’t yank it.

A strange ache settled in her chest.

She used to be them. Sharp-eyed. Quick-wristed. Steady.

But now her grip was different. Now her hands shook when she was tired. Now she missed two fingers on her strumming hand. Now she avoided the field like it might recognize her and spit her back out.

Still, she watched.

For a moment, she forgot the list of errands folded in her jacket pocket. Forgot the twitch in her shoulder, the buzzing in her ears when JJ cried too loudly. Forgot she wasn’t trusted, wasn’t whole, wasn’t herself.

She watched and imagined herself stepping forward.

Correcting a grip.

Demonstrating a draw.

Holding a bow again—not to kill, not to defend—but just to feel what it was like.

Just for a second.

The thought stayed with her the entire walk home. It clung to her like the heat of the sun—quiet, persistent, impossible to ignore. She didn’t know why it mattered so much. Maybe it was the way the kids laughed when they missed. Maybe it was how one of them stood, feet all wrong, and she’d nearly corrected it out loud without meaning to.

Maybe it was because—for the first time in weeks—she’d felt something that wasn’t fear.

By the time she stepped into the house, her mind had already rehearsed what she might say. Ten different versions of it. None felt right. Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her shirt as she walked past the kitchen and into the living room.

Dina was sitting on the floor, folding laundry into neat stacks. One of JJ’s shirts slipped from her hand and landed beside her foot. She didn’t notice.

Ellie hovered in the doorway, heart thudding harder than it should for something so simple.

“Hey,” she started, her voice too casual, too careful.

Dina looked up. “Hey. You okay?”

Ellie gave a small shrug, stepping into the room. “Yeah. I was just... I was out earlier, near the training field.”

A pause. Then: “Some of the kids were practicing with bows.”

Dina set the shirt down, her brow lifting with quiet curiosity. “Oh yeah? I’ve heard they’ve been keeping at it.”

“Yeah,” Ellie said, then hesitated. Her eyes dropped to the table, fingers tracing the edge of the wood. She swallowed, then tried again. “I was thinking... maybe I could help them. Train with them. Show them a few things.”

Dina stilled. “You want to teach them?”

“I mean, just a little. Not, like... full-on classes or anything.” Ellie’s voice was a bit too quick now, defensive before the blow could land. “Just help. A couple mornings. Something to do.”

She forced herself to meet Dina’s gaze.

Dina’s mouth parted slightly, as if to respond, but she didn’t speak at first. Her eyes dropped to Ellie’s hand—her left hand. The one missing two fingers. The one that still trembled, sometimes, when she got overwhelmed.

Dina’s voice, when it came, was cautious. “El... are you sure?”

Ellie nodded, though the movement felt brittle. “Yeah. I think it’d be good for me. Keep me focused. Feel... I don’t know, human again.”

A beat of silence passed between them.

Dina’s gaze softened, but her worry didn’t vanish. If anything, it deepened—just enough for Ellie to feel it.

“I’m not saying I’ll be out there for hours,” Ellie added quickly. “Just something light. Nothing dangerous. I’ll be careful.”

Dina sat back on her heels, chewing her bottom lip. “It’s not just about the danger, Ellie.”

Ellie tensed. “You think I’ll spiral.”

Dina didn’t answer.

She didn’t need to.

Ellie looked away, jaw tight. “I’ll talk to Maria if that makes you feel better.”

Dina exhaled slowly. “Yeah. I think that’s a good idea.”

Ellie gave a quiet nod. Then turned to leave the room, but stopped just before the doorway. “I just want to feel useful again,” she said, without turning around. “That’s all.”

Behind her, Dina stood up, her voice soft. “You are useful, El.”

But Ellie wasn’t sure if she believed that anymore.

___

Later that evening, the dinner dishes had been cleared, the last of the town’s chatter fading outside as the lamplight flickered in Maria’s kitchen. Dina stood by the window, her fingers wrapped loosely around a mug that had long since gone cold. Maria sat across from her at the table, elbows on the worn wood, eyes scanning some papers—but not reading them.

They hadn’t spoken much since the meal. Just the easy silence of people who had carried more than their share.

Then, finally, Dina broke it. Her voice was soft, carefully measured.

“Ellie wants to help the kids at the training field,” she said, glancing over. “With archery. Just a couple days a week. Nothing too much.”

Maria looked up slowly, folding the papers and setting them aside. She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, exhaling through her nose, her gaze steady and unreadable.

Dina watched her, waiting.

“It might be good for her,” Maria said at last. Her tone was even, but not dismissive. “Keeping her engaged. Focused.” A pause. “But I don’t want her pushing herself too hard. Not yet.”

Dina nodded, slowly. “That’s what I was thinking too. She seems... better. Calmer, maybe. But I can still see the edge she’s standing on.”

Maria’s eyes narrowed slightly. Not in judgment—just calculation. Worry in disguise. “She’s not used to being told to slow down. Even as a kid, she fought stillness like it was a punishment.”

Dina gave a small, tired smile. “She still does.”

There was a long pause. The kind that carried more weight than most words.

Maria leaned forward, resting her arms on the table now, her voice low and quiet. “Let her try. Let her want something. But if you see her start to lose herself again—even a little—I want to know.”

Dina nodded, her throat tightening. “I’ll keep an eye.”

Maria didn’t need to say it. Neither of them wanted to see Ellie spiral again. Not like last time. Not with JJ nearby. Not with Lev still in town.

“Let her ease into it,” Maria added. “One step at a time. And if she needs to stop, we don’t make her feel like she failed.”

Dina looked down at the rim of her mug, her voice barely above a whisper. “She already thinks she has.”

Maria said nothing, but her hand reached across the table, resting gently on Dina’s. Just for a moment.

Then the quiet returned.

And for the first time that day, it didn’t feel heavy.

Just necessary.

___

That night, Dina found Ellie sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on her knees, staring down at her hands.

She didn’t say much. Just handed Ellie a folded cloth with the list of errands for the next day—some lentils, two candles, soap from the storehouse. Simple things.

But she lingered in the doorway.

“Talked to Maria,” Dina said after a long pause.

Ellie didn’t look up.

“She’s okay with the archery thing. A couple mornings a week. Slow. Just to try.”

Ellie nodded once, silent. The words settled in her chest like water hitting dry earth.

Dina added gently, “She just wants us to keep an eye on how it’s going.”

Ellie still didn’t respond, but something shifted in her posture. Her shoulders didn’t quite straighten, but her breath moved a little deeper in her lungs. She stood and quietly placed the cloth bundle on the dresser.

Dina didn’t stop her as she reached for her hoodie and boots.

Ellie didn’t sleep much that night. The weight of Maria’s cautious approval pressed against her ribs in a strange way. It wasn’t freedom. It was a test—one she wasn’t sure she could pass. But still… it was something. And she needed something.

___

The next morning, before the rest of Jackson had begun to stir, Ellie stepped out into the quiet.

The air was still cool with that early summer bite—warm where the light touched, but crisp in the shade. The grass at the edges of the field was still wet with dew. The scent of soil and morning and faint woodsmoke drifted lazily in the breeze.

She walked slowly toward the practice range, each step deliberate, like the earth might break beneath her feet if she moved too fast.

One of the bows hung on the rack near the edge of the field, strung and worn from use. She reached for it, her fingers closing around the grip with a careful reverence. The weight was familiar. Muscle memory stirred in her spine.

But when she nocked the arrow and raised the bow, her hands betrayed her.

The draw was weaker than she remembered. Her left hand, scarred and short of two fingers, trembled slightly as she tried to anchor the bowstring. The arrow wobbled. Her elbow tensed with overcompensation. She released too soon, and the arrow veered left, barely skimming the edge of the target.

She exhaled sharply through her nose.

Not angry.

But disappointed in a way that settled deep.

She reset. Tried again. The grip still felt wrong. The string caught against the missing tension of her pinky and ring finger, and it took more strength than it should’ve to hold steady. Her breath faltered on the draw. Her shoulder burned.

She let go.

Another miss.

Ellie lowered the bow, jaw tight, fingers twitching at her side.

For a long moment, she just stood there, the bow limp in her grasp, the sound of her breathing louder than the breeze.

The field was still empty.

No one had seen.

And that—maybe—was the only mercy she’d been granted so far.

The third arrow barely made the distance. It dropped with a dull thunk into the dirt just short of the straw target. Ellie exhaled sharply through her nose, lowered the bow, and let her arm fall to her side. Her fingers throbbed. Not from pain—but from memory. From the ghost of what used to be.

Then came a voice.

Light. Calm. Younger than she remembered it.

“Your grip’s off.”

Ellie turned quickly, almost too quickly.

Lev stood at the edge of the field, arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes steady but not harsh. His posture was relaxed—no bow in his hand, just quiet observation in the tilt of his head. He looked like he’d been watching for a while.

She blinked, heart still ticking fast from the surprise, but her instinct to lash out didn’t come. Not this time.

Instead, she narrowed her eyes slightly. “Oh yeah?” she said, not quite hostile, but not friendly either. “And how should I be holding it, expert?”

Her voice carried a touch of challenge—like she needed to remind herself who she was speaking to.

Lev didn’t react. He stepped closer, slow and unbothered, until he stood just beside her—not too close, not invasive, but near enough that she could hear the way he breathed through his nose, quiet and even.

“Shift the weight,” he said. “Don’t hold with your fingers. Press the grip into the center of your palm. Let the bone do the work.”

Ellie glanced at him, skeptical.

Lev met her gaze, his expression unreadable. “It’s what I do. My hands shake too, sometimes. Palms are steadier.”

There was something in his voice—an understanding, not pity.

Ellie hesitated.

Then, slowly, she adjusted. She repositioned her left hand, centering the grip lower in her palm. It felt off at first—unfamiliar. But when she lifted the bow again and pulled back the string, the tension evened out. It didn’t feel natural. But it didn’t feel wrong.

She breathed in. Held it. Released.

The arrow flew—cleaner this time. It struck the target’s edge with a satisfying thud.

Not a bullseye.

But it stuck.

Ellie lowered the bow, blinking at the result. A surprised smile ghosted across her lips.

She turned toward Lev, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Not bad,” she muttered, brushing a strand of hair back. “Thanks.”

Lev shrugged, the barest hint of a grin tugging at his mouth. “Anytime.”

And for the first time since Santa Barbara, Ellie felt something strange stir in her chest.

Not trust.

Not peace.

Just the quiet, foreign feeling of being seen—not as a threat, or a failure, or a fragile shell.

Just a girl with a bow, relearning her hands.

They stood there for a long moment, shoulder to shoulder beneath the early light. Not speaking. Just breathing.

Ellie let her eyes drift to Lev, watching the way his hands moved—smooth, precise, without hesitation—as he adjusted the bow. There was a steadiness to him that didn’t belong to someone his age. No fidgeting, no nerves. Just calm. Quiet control. Like the kind
of person who had been forced to grow up too fast and made peace with it.

It was strange, seeing him like this. Not as a warning, not as a memory. Just... as a person. Someone who knew what the hell he was doing.

And then, like a slow trickle of water down her spine, the memories began to seep in.

The theater in Seattle—Tommy bleeding, chaos, Lev’s silhouette behind Abby. The way he had spoken, voice cutting through the fury with that calm, deliberate plea: “Don’t.”

And later, on the beach. His body limp in the sand. Blood in his hair. A weight Ellie had used, used, to manipulate Abby into fighting her.

Her fingers clenched slightly around the bow.

She had weaponized a child.

And yet... here he was.

Helping her. Steadying her. Not asking for anything.

That flicker in her chest—she hadn’t felt it in a long time. Not peace. Not relief. Something thinner. Lighter.

Hope.

A fragile thing, brittle like the wings of a moth. But it was there.

She turned to him. “So,” she said quietly, lowering the bow, her voice more casual than she felt. “You seem to know your way around this.”

Lev gave a small, knowing smile. “Yeah. I grew up with it. It’s kind of second nature now.”

Ellie raised an eyebrow, folding her arms. “Second nature, huh? You talk like an old man.”

Lev tilted his head, that calm smirk still playing at the corner of his mouth. “Want me to prove it?”

Ellie gave a dry chuckle. “Sure. Show me what you’ve got.”

Lev stepped forward and took the bow from her hands. He moved with the kind of quiet confidence that made it clear he wasn’t trying to impress her. It wasn’t about pride. It was about precision. About routine.

He drew the string back with effortless ease, his shoulders relaxed, breath steady.

And in a single movement, he released.

The arrow cut through the air in a perfect line, striking dead center. A clean thunk echoed across the field.

Ellie blinked, her jaw tensing in something that wasn’t quite surprise—but wasn’t far from it either.

Lev handed the bow back to her, wordless.

She took it slowly, eyes on the target. “Damn,” she muttered. “You’ve got skills.”

Lev shrugged, almost shy now. “It’s just practice.”

Ellie shook her head, a smirk creeping in. “I don’t know many teenagers who can shoot like that. The kids here still hold the string like it’s gonna bite them.”

Lev followed her gaze toward the far side of the field, where a few younger teens were still taking sloppy shots, laughing when they missed.

His expression softened. A distant kind of softness. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. “I guess I’ve had a lot of practice.”

Then, quieter: “Life or death situations make you learn fast.”

Ellie didn’t say anything.

Because she knew exactly what he meant.

Ellie nodded slowly, the weight of Lev’s words settling into her chest like sediment. Life or death makes you learn fast. She knew that truth. Lived it.

But there was more here—more to why he was standing in Jackson, watching her shoot, offering advice like they hadn’t almost died at each other’s hands. She could feel it. That kind of calm didn’t come without purpose.

She shifted the bow in her grip. Her voice came out lighter than she felt. “So… why’d you volunteer to come here?”

Lev looked down, and the quiet between them stretched.

He didn't answer right away.

Instead, he dragged a toe through the dirt, the soft scrape the only sound for a moment. When he did speak, his voice had changed—smaller, more uncertain. “I didn’t.”

Ellie blinked. “You didn’t?”

He shook his head. “Abby didn’t want me to come.”

The name hit like a stone dropped in a still pond—hard, echoing, rippling through her without warning.

Ellie’s body didn’t flinch, but something in her gut coiled tight. She hadn’t heard Abby’s name spoken aloud since Lev had arrived. And now, here it was. Heavy. Real.

She fought to keep her tone even. “Why not?”

Lev hesitated again. His gaze flicked back up, meeting hers with something steadier this time. “She didn’t think it was safe. She didn’t want me here. She said... it wasn’t my fight. That I shouldn’t be involved.”

Ellie felt her pulse shift.

Abby’s caution—her need to protect Lev—felt familiar. Too familiar. That same instinct Joel had once carried in his bones. That thing you do when someone’s become more than just a companion. When they become family.

And yet, Lev had come anyway.

Ellie’s voice was quieter now, more careful. “So why are you here, then?”

Lev looked at her for a long time. He wasn’t guarded. Just... thinking. Choosing the right shape for the truth.

“Because I owe her,” he said. “Abby’s done more for me than anyone ever has. She gave up everything to protect me. And after Santa Barbara... after what we went through… I wanted to do something for her.”

He paused, brushing a bit of dust from his sleeve like it helped organize the rest of his thoughts.

“She didn’t ask me to come,” he added. “But I knew it mattered. I knew you mattered. I wanted to help.”

Ellie’s breath caught slightly at that last part—you mattered. Not the cure. Not the Fireflies. You.

She didn’t know how to respond to that.

Her eyes dropped to the bow in her hands. Her fingers toyed with the string. She tried to focus on the texture, the tension—anything to stop the sudden knot that had formed in her stomach. Abby hadn’t wanted him here. Abby had wanted distance. To move on.

And Lev had chosen to ignore that.

For her.

It reminded Ellie too much of herself. The way she had once chased after people she loved, even when they told her not to.

Even when it ended in ruin.

“Well,” she muttered after a beat, trying to push the weight from her chest. “Looks like you’re here whether she likes it or not.”

Lev gave a faint smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. Guess so.”

They stood there in silence, a soft breeze curling through the field around them. Off in the distance, one of the younger teens shouted after a missed shot, laughter ringing out like a world untouched by grief.

Ellie didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, side by side with a boy she barely knew—but somehow understood.

She didn’t trust him. Not fully. Maybe not even half.

But for the first time since Lev had stepped foot in Jackson, Ellie felt something loosening inside her chest.

Maybe it wasn’t about trust yet.

Maybe it was just about trying.

___

A few days passed. Then another. Then another.

And before Ellie realized it, the morning rhythm had shifted.

It wasn’t something they ever talked about. Lev never asked. Ellie never invited. But each day, just after the sun cleared the ridge and Jackson began to stir, he’d be there—waiting at the edge of the field like he belonged to the place. Not eager. Not expectant. Just present.

And somehow, that was enough.

At first, they practiced in silence. The only sounds were the scrape of arrows against quivers, the creak of bowstrings, the soft thud of arrows striking straw. But the quiet between them changed with time. It softened. Breathed. Gave way to the occasional word. A shared glance. A half-smile.

And eventually, it became something Ellie hadn’t felt in a long time: ease.

On this particular morning, the air was already warm by the time Ellie loosed her third arrow. It struck the target left of center—closer than the last dozen she’d fired in days past.

She exhaled, lowering the bow. Her muscles burned in a good way. Not sharp. Just alive.

“Getting there,” she muttered under her breath, more to herself than to Lev.

But he heard it.

From a few feet away, he gave a nod—small, almost imperceptible. “You’re improving fast,” he said. “Not bad.”

Ellie glanced at him, side-eyed, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Not bad?” she echoed. “That’s all I get?”

Lev shrugged, the smallest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Could be better.”

Ellie let out a quiet chuckle, shaking her head. “You’re tough, kid.”

They kept shooting. Each arrow brought its own rhythm—draw, breathe, release. Lev occasionally made small corrections. Ellie started doing the same. It became mutual. Comfortable. Honest.

The targets didn’t matter so much. It was the doing. The movement. The focus.

It was the first thing in weeks that didn’t feel like a performance for anyone else.

After a while, Lev leaned against the fence, his arms folded across his chest, posture relaxed. The sun hit the side of his face, lighting up the scar along his brow. He didn’t seem to notice.

“You know,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “You’re not as bad as I thought you’d be at this.”

Ellie raised a brow, arrow paused mid-draw. “Wow. Really earning that compliment today.”

He shrugged again, this time with less teasing. “Just saying. You’re better than most.”

She smirked. “Didn’t realize I had to impress a kid.”

Lev laughed—really laughed—and the sound caught Ellie off guard. It was light, unguarded, almost joyful. It echoed off the empty field and stirred something in her chest.

“I’ll give you that one,” he said.

Ellie released another arrow, this one clipping the outer ring of the target. Not perfect. But solid.

Then her tone shifted. Her gaze stayed on the straw target ahead, her voice a little more distant. “You ever miss it?”

Lev glanced at her. “What?”

“Your people. The way things were.”

He was quiet for a beat. Not just thoughtful—weighed down. When he answered, his voice was softer. “No. Not really.”

He looked down, kicked a bit of gravel near his boot. “There wasn’t much to miss. Not after my sister was gone.”

Another pause.

“She was everything. She protected me. Always.” His voice faltered, but only briefly. “After that... there wasn’t much left to go back to.”

Ellie felt something shift in her throat. The kind of ache that didn't announce itself—just appeared, like rain coming in over quiet hills.

She didn’t say I’m sorry. She didn’t offer comfort.

She simply said, “Yeah. I get that.”

Her voice was raw.

“Losing people... it changes you.”

Lev nodded slowly. “Yeah. You learn to survive.”

He looked at her then, something unreadable in his expression. “But sometimes surviving isn’t enough.”

Ellie held his gaze, her fingers tightening around the bow just slightly.

She knew exactly what he meant.

Lev’s words lingered between them like a ripple that refused to fade.

Surviving isn’t enough.

Ellie looked at him, really looked at him—this kid who’d grown up under a religion that tried to kill him, who’d seen more death than most men twice his age, and somehow still stood upright. Still calm. Still himself.

Her chest tightened.

How many times had she told herself the same thing in different ways? Keep going. Keep breathing. Keep moving forward. But forward had gotten her nowhere. Just more grief. More silence in the house. More distance with Dina.

Surviving had left her hollow.

Lev, of all people, understood that.

And now here he was—standing beside her, not as an enemy or a symbol of everything she lost, but just… a boy with a bow. Someone who hadn’t asked anything of her. Someone who saw her shaking hands and didn’t look away.

She felt her bow lower in her grip, almost unconsciously.

Then came the harder part.

Dina.

Her face rose unbidden in Ellie’s mind—tired eyes, guarded kindness. She could already imagine the look Dina would give her if Lev crossed their doorstep. Not out of anger. Not even hate. Just a flicker of betrayal, sharp and silent. Him?

And still… Ellie hesitated.

Because JJ’s face followed right behind.

JJ, who had no idea what the world had been. Who still thought every stranger might be a friend. Who deserved a future shaped by people who knew what the worst looked like and still chose to be better.

And Lev had lived it. Survived it. Risen from it.

So maybe—just maybe—this was something more than trying to fix herself.

Maybe it was the first right thing she’d done in a long time.

“I...” Ellie started, then faltered.

Lev turned slightly toward her, waiting, his face neutral but open.

She cleared her throat, her fingers tightening on the bow. “Maybe you could come by. For lunch, I mean. Just to talk.”

Her voice wavered at the edges.

“It doesn’t have to be a thing,” she added quickly, “just... something small.”

Lev blinked, surprised. But he didn’t smile. He didn’t gloat. He just nodded slowly, like he understood what it cost her to ask.

“Sure,” he said quietly. “If that’s okay.”

Ellie gave the smallest nod, not trusting herself to say anything more.

And for a moment, she didn’t feel better. Didn’t feel stronger.

But she felt alive.

That would have to be enough.

Ellie swallowed hard and nodded, but the movement felt mechanical. The quiet between her and Lev stretched like a thread ready to snap.

They walked side by side, but not together.

The path toward the house felt longer than it should’ve, each step dragging beneath the weight of her own doubt. When the backyard came into view, she paused. Her eyes landed on JJ—barefoot, laughing, cheeks flushed as he darted between rows of sprouting greens. Robin chased him at half speed, her voice light and playful.

The sight twisted something deep inside Ellie.

He was so bright. Untouched. A burst of joy in a world Ellie barely understood anymore.

She slowed, letting Lev linger behind her. She felt him stop without being asked.

“I’ll wait here,” he said gently.

Ellie looked over her shoulder. He wasn’t looking at her—his eyes were on JJ, something soft flickering there. Not longing. Not regret. Just recognition.

She nodded. “Yeah. Just... give me a minute.”

She stepped into the yard, gravel crunching underfoot, her chest tightening with each breath. JJ turned the second he saw her.

“El-el!” he cried out, his little feet pounding across the grass.

Ellie dropped to a crouch, arms open just in time to catch him as he barreled into her. His laughter was instant, breathless, and her heart fluttered with something dangerously close to relief.

“Hey, buddy,” she whispered into his curls, brushing his hair back and pressing a kiss to his temple. She held him a moment longer than usual.

Her eyes lifted toward Robin, who stood a few feet away, hands on her hips, smiling with quiet patience.

Robin gave a small nod, nothing more. But there was something in her gaze—a knowing. She didn’t ask questions. She just turned slightly, already sensing the shift in the air.

Then the door opened.

A quiet creak. The sound of a plate being balanced with one hand.

Dina stepped into the sunlight, a dish towel tucked at her hip, a glass plate of sliced fruit in her hands.

Ellie turned too quickly. She heard the catch of breath before she saw Dina’s expression shift.

Shock. Then recognition. Then something sharper—like cold steel drawn beneath the ribs.

The plate trembled.

Ellie moved on instinct, stepping forward, hands steady as she reached for it. “I got it,” she said softly, her fingers brushing Dina’s as she took the plate.

“Dina…”

But Dina was already looking past her—eyes narrowed, fixed on the figure at the edge of the yard. Lev, unmoving. Waiting.

Her voice, when it came, was quiet—but it cracked. “What the hell is he doing here?”

Ellie’s throat went dry.

She turned to Robin, her voice shaky. “Can you—can you take this?” She passed the plate into Robin’s waiting hands.

Robin didn’t speak. She just nodded once, taking JJ’s hand without comment, gently guiding him toward the garden’s edge.

Ellie turned back, standing between Dina and Lev.

“I asked him to come,” she said. Her voice wavered, but she forced it to stay steady. “Just for lunch. Just to talk.”

Dina stared at her like she’d been struck.

“Talk?” she echoed, breathless. “You brought him here? After everything? After Seattle?”

Her voice rose with each word, but she didn’t yell. She didn’t need to. The betrayal in her eyes was louder than anything she could’ve said.

Ellie stepped closer, lowering her voice like it could contain the hurt. “I know. I know how it looks. But it’s not what you think. I’m not choosing sides—I just... I needed to understand some things.”

Dina’s jaw clenched. Her shoulders stiffened. “And you didn’t think to ask me first? Didn’t think maybe JJ—Robin—shouldn’t be blindsided by this?”

“I didn’t plan it, I—” Ellie faltered, her hands trembling slightly now. “I didn’t expect to ask him. It just… happened.”

The silence between them cracked like ice.

Then, finally, Dina exhaled. Her shoulders dropped slightly—not in forgiveness, but in surrender. “Fine,” she said, voice tight. “But not out here.”

Ellie blinked. “What?”

Dina’s eyes were hard, unwavering. “Inside. If you’re gonna do this, you do it where JJ can’t hear a damn word of it.”

Ellie nodded, quietly devastated. She stepped forward, brushing her hand against Dina’s arm—tentative.

Dina didn’t move away.

But she didn’t move toward her either.

Robin was kneeling with JJ, showing him how to stack rocks near the flowerbed. Lev still stood at the edge of the yard, hands loose at his sides, gaze carefully lowered.

“We’ll be right back,” Ellie said softly over her shoulder.

Then she guided Dina into the house—where the real conversation waited.

Inside, the kitchen felt too small.

The air was warm from the oven, faintly spiced from the stew still simmering in the pot. But none of it touched the cold settling between them.

Dina turned the second the door closed behind them. Her arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes flashing with something more than just anger.

Betrayal.

“What are you thinking, Ellie?” she snapped, voice low but sharp. “What the hell is going on?”

Ellie dragged a hand through her hair, fingers tugging at the roots. She could feel her pulse in her temples, but she forced herself to stay still. “I didn’t plan for this, okay? It wasn’t like I woke up and decided to bring him home.”

“Then what the hell was it?” Dina asked, stepping forward. “A whim?”

“No,” Ellie said, quieter now. “It was... him. Lev. He’s not the enemy, Dina.”

Dina scoffed, turning away as she braced her hands against the countertop.

“I know it’s hard,” Ellie continued, voice softening, “but he wants to help. I think we should listen.”

Dina turned back slowly. Her face was tight, but her eyes shimmered. “He’s part of why everything fell apart, Ellie. You remember that, right? Seattle? Jesse? That goddamn theater?”

“I do,” Ellie said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I remember all of it. Every second.”

She stepped closer, carefully, like approaching a wounded animal. “But he’s also a kid who’s been through hell. Just like the rest of us. I think... maybe we can learn something from him. About what happened. About what happens next.”

Dina’s expression cracked.

Her arms dropped. She turned away, wiping at her eyes before the tears could fall. “I don’t know if I can do this again, Ellie,” she said, her voice tight. “Not another ‘maybe.’ Not another gamble.”

Ellie moved to her side, gently reaching for her hands. This time, Dina let her.

“We’re a family,” Ellie said softly. “You, me, JJ. And I’m not trying to drag the past into our house—I just want to stop living in it. I want to make this right. For him.”

She didn’t need to say JJ’s name.

Dina’s eyes flickered toward the window, where sunlight spilled across the backyard. Outside, Robin stood near the garden, JJ bouncing at her side, pointing toward the figure still waiting at the edge of the yard.

Lev hadn’t moved.

Dina let out a long breath, like something inside her was folding in on itself. “I’ll give him a chance,” she said, finally. “But, Ellie...” Her gaze sharpened. “This better not tear us apart again.”

“It won’t,” Ellie said, gripping her hands. “I promise.”

But the words caught in her throat even as she spoke them.

Because Ellie knew what Dina didn’t say—You’ve promised that before.

Dina stared at her, like she was trying to read something through her skin. Something buried. Something Ellie hadn’t even fully admitted to herself yet.

Ellie took a breath, stepping in a little closer. “I didn’t want to keep this from you,” she said, low and honest. “I just... I knew what it would mean to see him again. I knew how much it would hurt you.”

Dina pulled back, not violently—just enough to make her distance known.

“And you still did it,” she said flatly, pacing the edge of the kitchen now, hands on her hips, then in her hair, then back down again. “You’ve been training with him? For days? What if something had happened? What if you spiraled?”

Her voice cracked at the edge, and Ellie felt it in her chest like a bruise.

“I didn’t,” Ellie said quickly. “I’ve been careful. I swear.”

Dina let out a humorless laugh, dragging her hands down her face. “Careful? Ellie, we called the medic last time.”

“I know,” Ellie said, softer now. “But this is different. I feel it. Lev isn’t just here to help. There’s something else going on. Something bigger. I can feel it.”

“You should’ve told me,” Dina said, her voice going flat again.

Ellie swallowed the lump rising in her throat. “I know. I should’ve. But this—” She paused, shaking her head. “This feels important. Like... I need to understand it before it’s too late.”

Dina opened her mouth to respond—but then a sound rose from the yard.

A child’s voice.

“Bobo!”

JJ.

His voice was high, curious, delighted.

Ellie and Dina froze.

Both women turned toward the window in unison, drawn by the sound of JJ’s voice. Their eyes widened as they watched him waddle across the grass, his little feet steady and determined.

He made his way straight toward Lev.

The boy’s hand reached up, not quite touching, but hovering near Lev’s face—fascinated by the scars that cut across his features like old stories carved into skin.

“Bobo,” JJ said again, clearly enchanted.

Ellie felt her breath catch.

Lev blinked, startled. He looked down at JJ with wide eyes—unsure at first. But then, slowly, he crouched to the child’s level. His voice was soft, warm.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “A bobo.”

JJ giggled, the pure kind that carried straight into the bones. The sound pulled a laugh from Lev—quiet, caught off guard. It didn’t sound like it belonged to someone who’d spent years surviving. It sounded real.

At the edge of the yard, Robin had turned fully now, watching the exchange with eyes narrowed—not with suspicion, but with quiet curiosity.

She said nothing.

She just stepped forward, slow and deliberate, moving past the edge of what had once been a boundary. Her gaze flicked from Lev to JJ, then back again, reading more in that child’s laughter than any adult could have said.

And then she stepped back.

Not because she was retreating.

Because she was making space.

As Lev carefully reached for JJ’s tiny hand, letting the boy press his fingers over his own scar, Robin stood aside and watched with the faintest smile.

No words.

Just trust.

Inside, Ellie felt it all shift.

The weight in the room shifted from tension to stillness. Not relief—but something close to surrender.

Dina stood beside her, frozen. Her arms no longer crossed. Her hands at her sides, clenched but not tight.

Outside, JJ tugged at Lev’s hand, pulling him toward his scattered toys. “Vroom vroom!” he said, bouncing slightly as he handed over a small wooden car with half its wheels missing.

Lev turned it over in his hands, bemused. “Cars don’t make that sound where I’m from,” he said softly, looking to Robin.

Robin chuckled, stepping in just enough to explain. “Well, in this yard, they do.”

Lev smiled and gave a soft, exaggerated rumble—“Vrrrrooom”—and JJ shrieked with delight, clapping his hands.

More giggles followed. The kind Ellie hadn’t heard in days.

Inside, Dina’s eyes never left them. Her heart was pounding. Not from panic, but from something harder to name—something deeper.

JJ was safe.

Happy.

Laughing.

And somehow… Lev was part of that.

Not a threat. Not a shadow.

Just a boy playing with a boy.

Dina’s voice was low, strained. “It’s not about safety anymore.”

Ellie looked over, silent.

Dina kept watching the yard. “Seeing him like that... with JJ…” Her breath hitched. “It’s not fear anymore. It’s knowing that you’re going to follow this through. No matter what.”

Her eyes filled—not with tears, but with clarity. “And it terrifies me.”

Ellie stepped closer, her voice steady now. She didn’t reach for Dina’s hand—just stood beside her, close enough to be felt.

“We’ll figure it out,” she said. “Together.”

Dina finally looked at her. There was still worry in her eyes, deep and raw.

But something else lived there too.

Understanding.

She knew it now. Knew that Ellie was already walking toward something—and that turning back wasn’t an option.

But maybe… maybe walking with her was.

After the tension inside, stepping into the open air felt like surfacing from deep water.

But it wasn’t relief.

Not yet.

Ellie and Dina moved together, but not with each other. Their shoulders close, their hands never touching.

Robin had taken up a quiet post at the garden’s edge, JJ nestled in her lap now, lazily playing with a soft string doll. Lev sat nearby on the grass, cross-legged, still mid-game. A few wooden toys were scattered between them—JJ’s personal kingdom, opened just enough to share.

As Ellie and Dina approached, Lev looked up, sensing the shift before anyone spoke. His expression stayed open, neutral. But Ellie saw it—the subtle straightening of his spine, the slight tension in his shoulders.

He was bracing for something.

And he was right to.

Dina stopped just short of him. Her arms crossed over her chest, her voice colder than the early summer breeze. “Let’s get one thing straight, Lev.”

She waited until his eyes met hers.

“I’m only letting this happen because it’s lunchtime,” she continued, her tone clipped, distant. “And I’m not about to be a bad hostess in front of my kid.”

Her throat tightened. She pressed on.

“But don’t think for a second I’ve forgotten everything that happened.”

Her voice cracked—just for a moment—but she pushed through it, reclaiming control. “I’m not where Ellie is... in moving on.”

There was a silence then. Heavy. Expectant.

Lev didn’t flinch.

He simply nodded. No defense. No argument.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

Dina blinked.

Ellie saw it—how the sincerity in Lev’s voice disarmed her more than anything he could’ve denied. He wasn’t trying to explain himself. He was just… grateful.

And it unsettled her.

Before Dina could find a response, Lev turned to Ellie. His voice shifted—gentler now. Warmer.

“I never really had the chance to thank you,” he said.

Ellie stiffened. Her breath caught.

“For Santa Barbara,” he went on. “For saving us.”

The world narrowed.

Dina glanced at Ellie, confused. “Saving them?” her expression said without words. Her brow furrowed as her gaze flicked between them.

Ellie stared at Lev, her heartbeat suddenly loud in her ears.

“I... what?” she managed, barely audible.

Lev didn’t notice. Or didn’t understand. He kept going, unaware of the storm building in Ellie’s chest.

“Abby told me what you did,” he said, calm, almost reverent. “You came to the beach. When the Rattlers were losing control. She said the buildings were burning. That you cut us down... helped us get to the water. She said you saved our lives.”

Ellie’s body stayed frozen, but something inside her fractured.

Because that wasn’t how she remembered it.

Not even close.

Ellie’s pulse quickened.

The air around her thinned, like the sun had gone out without warning. Her fingers twitched slightly at her sides.

Lev’s words replayed in her head like static:

You cut us down.

You saved our lives.

Her breath caught in her throat.

That’s not what happened.

She didn’t save them. She hadn’t walked onto that beach with kindness in her chest or clarity in her heart. She’d used Lev—his body strung up like a broken doll, unconscious, barely breathing—as a weapon. A trigger.

She’d pointed her knife at his throat.

Not to free him.

But to make Abby break.

To force her to fight.

To punish her.

That’s not what happened.

Her mouth opened slightly, the words scraping at the back of her tongue. She needed to correct him. She needed to ask—Did Abby lie to you? Do you know what I really did?

But before anything could escape her lips, Dina stepped forward.

Quick. Subtle.

Her eyes darted not to Ellie—but to the small wooden table where JJ sat, legs dangling off the edge, hands smeared with jam. He was chewing contentedly, watching Lev with open curiosity. Tiny fingers lifted in mimicry of Lev’s earlier hand gestures, echoing the way he’d explained something with a soft smile.

He was listening.

Absorbing.

“Not now, Ellie,” Dina said quietly, her voice gentle but firm.

Ellie froze.

She turned toward JJ, her eyes locking onto his tiny form. Her throat tightened.

He was watching her.

Always watching.

She closed her mouth, jaw working, nodding once. The questions could wait. The truth could wait.

It had to.

Robin, who had been hovering at the garden edge with the weight of a hundred unspoken thoughts, stepped in with practiced warmth. “Why don’t we sit?” she said, her tone soft, soothing. “JJ’s having a great time. Let’s keep it that way. We can talk after.”

Ellie nodded again, more slowly this time. Her mind still caught in the undertow of what had just been said.

She followed Robin’s motion toward the table, but in the back of her skull, the words wouldn’t stop ringing:

You saved our lives.

And beneath that...

You didn’t.

___

They sat at the backyard table, the food between them a buffer, a script for normalcy that none of them fully believed in.

Plates were passed. JJ babbled through bites of bread, crumbs sticking to his cheeks. Robin asked gentle questions about vegetables and toy trucks. Dina responded where she had to, but her eyes rarely left Lev.

Lev kept his head low, focused on his plate, his posture respectful. He didn’t push conversation. Didn’t bring up Santa Barbara again. He answered when asked—briefly, kindly—but his presence was careful. As if he understood that his very breath in this space was borrowed.

Ellie barely touched her food.

She picked at it, stirred her drink, nodded when JJ handed her a wilted flower from under the table. But her mind was elsewhere—stuck on the image of Lev hanging limp from that post. On the weight of the blade in her hand. On how wrong it felt to be thanked for surviving that moment.

Still, she kept her face still. Neutral. For JJ.

Across from her, Dina did the same. Her words were light, but her hands didn’t stop moving—adjusting napkins, fixing JJ’s cup, brushing nonexistent crumbs off the table.

It was a performance.

But one they all agreed to participate in.

By the time the food had been mostly cleared, JJ was slumping in his seat, chewing on the edge of a wooden spoon.

Robin dabbed at his face with a cloth, then stood, her voice warm. “You know,” she said, as if the idea had just occurred to her, “I think Hiro would love to hear about JJ’s new friend.”

She cast a subtle glance at Lev, then at the boy curled into her hip. “How about I take him to my place for a while? Give you three some time to... catch up.”

The offer was clear. A shield. A kindness.

Dina looked at Ellie. Ellie looked back.

Neither spoke at first.

Then Ellie nodded, her voice quiet. “Thanks.”

Dina echoed her, a little softer. “That sounds good.”

JJ perked up, thrilled at the idea. “Nana!” he cheered, arms already outstretched.

Robin scooped him up with ease, gathering a few toys and his small sun hat. She gave Lev a parting nod—not cold, not warm. Just measured.

To Ellie, she offered something more: a look that said I trust you with this.

Then she turned and walked off, JJ chattering in her arms, waving one hand behind him as they disappeared around the garden path.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy.

It was expectant.

The kind of silence that comes just before someone opens a wound.

The air thickened the second Robin and JJ disappeared down the path.

It was as if the sun dimmed, as if the garden itself knew something old and sharp was about to be unearthed. Ellie sat rigid, her knees close together, fingers curled around the edge of her chair. Lev sat across from her, posture open, calm in a way that only made her feel more unsteady.

Dina broke the silence, her voice low and pointed.

“Abby told you Ellie saved your lives?”

Not accusatory. Not even skeptical.

Just… incredulous.

Ellie’s heart skipped.

Her gaze snapped to Lev, confusion flashing across her face like a crack of lightning. She didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The weight in her chest was back, pressing into her lungs, making it hard to draw a full breath.

Saved them?

The memory clawed up again—sand under her boots, the sound of surf crashing too close, the salt and blood caked under her fingernails. Abby’s hands broken and shaking. Lev unconscious. Her knife. Her fury. Her hate.

Lev didn’t flinch.

He met Dina’s gaze with a quiet steadiness that didn’t waver. “Abby didn’t lie to me.”

His tone wasn’t defensive. Just certain.

“She told me everything. She told me what happened between you two—what she did, and what you did. But when it came to that beach…” He paused, glancing toward Ellie now. His voice softened. “Whatever led you there, whatever you were feeling… in the end, you let us go. You could’ve left us hanging. You could’ve finished it.”

Ellie’s hands curled tighter around the chair.

She couldn’t speak. Her mouth was dry.

Lev continued, each word measured, heavy.

“You’re the one who decided we’d live.”

He let the silence hang after that.

Ellie stared at him.

Not in anger.

Not in denial.

But in shock.

Because somewhere deep down, she’d convinced herself she didn’t deserve that credit. That moment wasn’t mercy—it had been collapse. Her body giving out. Her grief outpacing her rage. The sound of Joel’s voice fading into the roar of the waves.

Dina shifted beside her, her arms no longer crossed. She looked between them now, unsure.

“Ellie?” she asked gently, her voice not as sharp as before.

But Ellie still couldn’t speak.

Because Lev wasn’t wrong.

And yet...

It didn’t feel like salvation.

It had felt like drowning.

Something twisted inside Ellie.

A knot of shame and disbelief.

Lev’s voice had been calm. Certain. Grateful. Like the worst moment of her life had been rewritten as someone else’s salvation.

Part of her wanted to stop him. To say—No. That’s not what happened. I held a blade to your throat. I wanted Abby to suffer. I wasn’t trying to save anyone. I was trying to drown in it.

But the way Lev spoke, so direct and serene, made it impossible to interrupt. His truth was the truth—for him. And Ellie wasn’t sure she had the right to take that away.

She stayed quiet. Not out of agreement.

But because she didn’t know what to do with a version of the story where she wasn’t the monster.

Lev’s voice softened, something reflective slipping into it.

“What happened that day… it doesn’t matter anymore,” he said. “What matters is that we made it out. Abby made it out alive. And so did I.”

His eyes met Ellie’s again, not accusing, not pleading—just there.

“And that’s because of you,” he said gently. “Lingering on the wrong doesn’t do any good.”

The words settled like dust in the sunlight, drifting through the quiet.

Dina shifted beside Ellie, her expression unreadable at first. Then her eyes turned toward her partner, concern flickering across her face—not because she disagreed, but because Ellie wasn’t saying anything at all.

Her silence was deafening.

“Well,” Dina said cautiously, trying to bridge the space between them all, “didn’t you… play a part in Abby sparing me, too?”

She glanced toward Lev, her tone softer now. “I mean... thank you. You helped save my life. And JJ’s.”

Lev gave the faintest shake of his head, a sad little smile tugging at his lips.

“I wouldn’t have let her hurt you,” he said. “Not after everything she did for me.”

He paused, his voice lowering into something more personal. “Abby’s the reason I’m still here.”

Dina tilted her head, frowning slightly—not in suspicion, but in curiosity. “What did she do for you?”

Lev looked down for a moment. As if he was searching for how to even begin.

Then he looked back up, and his voice—when it came—was quieter. More raw.

“She saved me and my sister, Yara,” he said. “From the Seraphites. That’s where I was born. That’s where we both were.”

He hesitated, then added, “We were supposed to die there. People like me… don’t survive in that world.”

His words lingered in the silence like a shadow stretching out at dusk. Ellie felt it settle deep in her chest.

Lev didn’t cry. His voice didn’t break.

But it didn’t need to.

There was grief in every breath he took.

Dina nodded, slow and steady, her voice soft when she finally spoke. “I don’t know much about them, but... I’ve heard things. Bad things.”

Lev gave a single nod. “They called me an abomination. Because of who I am. They would’ve killed me. They tried to. Abby stopped them. More than once.”

Ellie watched him carefully now. Not just listening. Learning.

Because this was the first time she’d seen Lev not as a reminder of Abby’s mercy or her own shame—
—but as someone who had survived the impossible.

Just like her.

“Yara broke her arm,” Lev said quietly, his voice tightening as if the pain of that memory still lived right behind his ribs. “We had no way to fix it. I didn’t know what to do. I was scared. Helpless.”

He paused, the words hanging in the warm air of the backyard like mist.

“And then Abby showed up.”

He didn’t look at either of them when he said it. He looked past the table, into a place only he could see.

“We didn’t trust her at first—she was a Wolf. Our enemy. But she helped us anyway. No hesitation. She carried Yara through the woods. Found us shelter. And when she realized we couldn’t treat the break ourselves, she climbed with me to the sky bridge, all the way across the city... just to get supplies.”

A brief breath.

“She’s terrified of heights.”

Dina’s gaze softened, her arms unfolding, her body slowly uncoiling as she listened. The image she had of Abby—brutal, remorseless—shifted under the weight of Lev’s voice. She could see it, just barely: a woman carrying someone else’s burden, walking across ropes in the sky, scared and steady at the same time.

Lev continued, slower now. “Mel—Abby’s friend—saved Yara’s life. Amputated her arm. Because Abby asked her to. They were all risking everything. Not for me. Not for a mission. Just because it was the right thing.”

He lowered his eyes.

“I didn’t have anyone left in the world but Yara,” he said, and for a moment, the child in him peeked through. “She was my whole life.”

A beat passed.

“And then... on our Island, I had to kill my mother. She came for me. Said I had to be punished.”

His voice didn’t crack.

That was what made it harder to hear.

“She raised the knife, and I—” He blinked hard, once, as if pulling the image away. “I survived. Abby stood between me and the Wolf commander, even though she had no reason to. She saved me again.”

The table was silent.

Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

Ellie didn’t move. Her posture hadn’t changed since he started speaking, but something had shifted behind her eyes.

The version of Abby she had clung to for so long—rage-filled, cold, brutal—that version was splintering under every word Lev spoke.

She had never wanted to know who Abby had been to someone else.

And now, she couldn’t unhear it.

Lev’s gaze flicked to Dina first, then to Ellie. His voice was steadier now, the tremble gone. What remained was reverence.

“Abby’s the reason I made it this far. The reason we reached Santa Catalina. After everything… she called me her people.”

Dina leaned back slowly in her chair, visibly moved. Her brows drawn together, lips parted like she was still trying to find words. She looked at Lev with something close to awe. A teenager—scarred by war, by betrayal, by loss—and yet there he was. Whole. Grounded. Kind.

She turned to Ellie.

But Ellie wasn’t looking back.

Her eyes were distant, fixed somewhere just over Lev’s shoulder.

Dina’s stomach dropped. “Ellie?” she said softly, almost afraid to break her.

But Ellie wasn’t gone.

She wasn’t dissociating.

She was processing.

It all swirled behind her stillness—Santa Barbara, Joel’s blood, the sand, the blade, the sound of waves crashing just beyond her sobs. And now Lev’s voice, soft but certain, threading through it all.

Abby wasn’t just a killer.

Not to Lev.

To him, she’d been a shield. A lifeline.

A home.

And Ellie—whether she meant to or not—had let that live.

She blinked slowly, her jaw tight. Her voice didn’t come. Not yet.

But something inside her had shifted.

And it wasn’t rage.

It was recognition.

Ellie’s throat tightened.

She opened her mouth to speak—but nothing came.

Her voice had abandoned her. All she could do was sit there, staring at Lev, his face blurring slightly around the edges as her vision swam—not from tears, not yet, but from something deeper. A kind of unmooring.

She didn’t feel steady anymore.

Lev seemed to sense it.

He took a breath, his gaze shifting from Ellie to Dina and back again. When he spoke, his voice was gentler, as if every word was a thread being laid down with care.

“Abby didn’t come with me,” he said quietly, “not just because it wasn’t safe…”

He hesitated, choosing his words.

“But because she wanted to move on.”

The words hung in the air like a distant echo, slow to land but impossible to ignore.

“She didn’t want to be tied to the past anymore,” Lev continued, his voice almost apologetic. “Santa Catalina gave her a chance. She’s trying to build something new there. Something... better.”

Ellie shifted in her seat.

The movement was small—but it felt enormous. Her fingers curled around the edge of the table, gripping the wood like it might anchor her.

Move on.

The phrase pulsed in her ears, over and over, drowning out the rest. It hit her in the gut—not as anger, not as betrayal, but as something cold and vast and hollow.

Abby was trying to move on.

And Ellie... Ellie was still here. Still bleeding in place.

“That’s why she didn’t want me to come,” Lev added. “She didn’t agree with it. But she knew it would be easier for you if I came instead. A familiar face. Someone who wouldn’t bring more pain.”

He looked down briefly, then back up. “She made sure the Fireflies who came with me were people who knew Jackson. People Tommy would recognize. She wanted me to get here safe.”

Safe.

Ellie’s heart thudded dully in her chest.

Abby—after everything—had thought of that.

And she hadn’t come.

Not because she was afraid.

But because she wanted to forget.

Ellie’s hands curled into fists in her lap, pressing into the fabric of her pants until her knuckles burned. It wasn’t rage. Not exactly.

It was something bitterer.

She left me behind.

She was still fighting a war Abby had already buried in the sand.

Dina, still visibly tense, leaned forward slightly. “She could’ve sent someone else,” she said, voice low but firm. “Why you?”

Lev shrugged, glancing between them. “I volunteered. Abby didn’t want me to come, but Ethan said it should be me.”

He hesitated, then added, “He thought you'd be more likely to listen to someone who wasn’t carrying a weapon in your memory.”

Ellie didn’t reply. Her jaw was tight, her eyes unreadable.

Lev continued, softer now. “Abby didn’t even know Ethan had that photo. Of your mom. It was just sitting on his desk. She said at first, she thought it was you.”

That made Ellie blink.

Lev seemed to miss it.

“She kind of froze when she saw it,” he added. “And Ethan… he got this look. Like he hadn’t heard her voice in years but had been waiting for it.”

Dina glanced at Ellie, sensing her shift even before she spoke.

“He just whispered something,” Lev continued. “I was across the room, but I heard it.”

He turned to Ellie now. “He said, ‘She called me Starlight.’ Like it meant something. Like it still did.”

Ellie stared at him.

The silence that followed felt thick, like someone had thrown a blanket over the world.

Dina straightened slightly in her seat. “She called him that?”

Lev nodded. “Yeah. Ethan said it like he was remembering her all over again. Not like someone he met once. Like someone he lost.”

Ellie’s breath caught.

It wasn’t just that Ethan had known Anna.

It was how he spoke about her. How a single word—Starlight—could be said with that kind of weight. As if he’d kept it locked inside for decades. As if he hadn’t dared share it until now.

Ellie suddenly felt small. Untethered. Like the ground beneath her wasn’t hers anymore.

She looked at Dina.

Dina looked back, her face shifting—confused, worried.

But Ellie didn’t say anything.

Because something had cracked open.

And for the first time since Lev arrived, Ellie wasn’t angry.

She was afraid.

Chapter Text

Ellie sat on the edge of her bed, elbows resting on her knees, fingers slack, the floor beneath her boots creaking faintly under her weight. Her pack lay open by her feet, half-filled and already feeling heavier than it should. A folded jacket, a half-used spool of thread, two cans of peaches, a cracked water flask she hadn’t touched since last week. She moved like someone trying not to disturb the quiet too much—as if it might collapse if she breathed too loud.

The room felt smaller than usual. The light through the curtains had that dull, honeyed softness that made the edges of everything look tired. The house, Jackson, even herself. There was no fire in her chest today. Just the slow press of memory in her bones.

This was the room that tried to pretend. Dina had decorated it once like their old farmhouse—same checkered blanket at the foot of the bed, same shelf by the window where JJ’s boots had once sat. But it wasn’t the same. The silence in this room was different. It lingered too long, like it was waiting for someone to say what they were too tired to say out loud.

Ellie reached into the side of her pack, pulled out the few things already inside—unfolded, shifted, refolded again. None of it felt right.

Her eyes drifted to the desk beside the window.

A single piece of paper sat there, edges curled slightly from time and touch. The drawing she’d made months ago—a sketch of Dina holding JJ, smiling. The lines were soft, delicate in a way she didn’t usually draw. She had drawn it on one of those nights when Dina had fallen asleep with JJ on her chest, too tired to notice Ellie watching from the kitchen table. She had traced every line from memory, shading Dina’s eyes with care, sketching JJ’s tiny hand clutched in hers.

She hadn’t meant to keep it. But she couldn’t throw it out either.

Ellie walked over to it slowly, brushing her fingers across the corner. The paper felt thinner now. Fragile. But it had held up. Just like they had, for a time.

She folded it carefully, creasing the edges along the old lines, and slid it between the pages of a weathered journal already packed. That way it wouldn't crumple. That way, maybe, she could look at it again.

Her gaze shifted to the corner of the room—four journals stacked crookedly beside the dresser. Their covers were worn and stained, spines soft and splitting. They looked tired. Like her. But they were hers. The ink inside them wasn’t just memory—it was survival.

There had been nights she wanted to burn them. Set the whole pile alight and watch the guilt go with it. But she never could. Some things you don’t erase.

She crouched down and gathered them, one at a time, cradling them like something living. She opened a side compartment of the bag and packed them tight, each one laid flat, nestled together like old bones. The bag sagged with their weight. It felt right.

The last item left on the desk was a blank journal. No scars, no ink, not yet.

She paused, fingers on the spine. For a moment, it felt like holding her breath.

Then she slipped it into the top of her bag. Just in case.

As she zipped the bag shut, the sound was final—not loud, not sharp, but soft and slow, like a closing door that didn’t want to wake the house. She sat back for a second, breathing through the heaviness curling around her ribs.

Jackson’s life carried on outside—voices, wind through fences, the bark of a dog somewhere far off. But in this room, Ellie wasn’t moving anymore.

She didn’t look back at the desk, or the empty floor where the journals had been.

She was taking the weight with her this time.

And the drawing.

That memory would travel too.

___

Her fingers brushed the worn flannel draped across the edge of the bed—Dina’s favorite. The fabric had grown soft over time, faded in places from too many washes. Ellie let her thumb linger along the seam, like maybe the warmth would still be there, some trace of all the nights she’d worn it just to feel closer to her.

And just like that, she was back in that moment, the one that had changed everything.

Lev had left only minutes before, the door clicking shut behind him like punctuation. The house had fallen into that awful kind of silence—not peaceful, not still. Just... hollow. Like the air had been sucked out of the room and neither of them could breathe properly.

They sat on the couch, not quite touching, the space between them loud with everything unsaid. Dina stared ahead, lips slightly parted, brow drawn like she was still trying to piece together what she’d just heard. Her fingers had been twisting the fabric of her jeans, knuckles white.

Ellie didn’t speak. She couldn’t. The silence was thick, but inside her, everything had gone quiet in a different way.

For once, she wasn’t spiraling. No panic, no rising tide of past and fear and breathlessness. Instead, there was this strange stillness. A clarity so sharp it almost hurt. The kind that only came after every other path had collapsed. She knew. She had to go.

When Dina finally spoke, her voice came out like a whisper meant for the dark. “That’s... that’s a lot to take in.” The words hovered, unsure. Her tone was gentle, cautious, like a mother stepping into a room where a baby had just fallen silent—not out of calm, but because something was wrong.

Ellie turned her head then, just enough to catch the side of Dina’s face. She was watching her, not blinking, like she was waiting for Ellie to crack open again. Waiting for the shake in her hands, the flicker of panic, the quiet dissociation she now knew how to look for.

But it didn’t come.

“I’m not gonna break,” Ellie had said, quietly. Not defiant. Not brave. Just honest.

And she hadn’t.

Because this time, the fear wasn’t the kind that made her run. It was the kind that told her to stand up and walk toward it.

If Lev hadn’t mentioned Anna, she might still be stuck there, still spinning in the ache of staying, torn between JJ’s laughter and the pull of something unfinished. But now... now she knew someone out there had known her mom. Her real mom. Not just a name scrawled in a letter, not a myth attached to Marlene’s whispers. Someone had known her. Dr. Ethan.

That changed everything.

She didn’t even have to say it. When she looked at Dina, when their eyes locked in that soft, suffocating silence, she knew Dina had seen it all before. That look. The same one from years ago, when Ellie packed for Santa Barbara. When she didn’t ask for permission, didn’t beg for understanding—only left. Chased ghosts. And left everything else behind. Again.

Dina’s lips parted, trembling with something she hadn’t decided whether to say. Her jaw set. Her breath shook. “Ellie...” she whispered.

But Ellie looked away, eyes back on the flannel. Her voice was soft but unwavering.

“I have to go.”

There was no argument. No anger. Just the steady grief of someone who understood that this time, love still wasn’t enough to make someone stay.

“I have to go, Dina,” Ellie had said—quiet, almost reverent. Not an apology. Not a plea. Just the kind of truth that settles deep in your ribs and doesn’t leave.

And Dina… Dina had known.

It was in her eyes. Not the flash of surprise or even anger—just that awful stillness that happens when you see something coming and still wish, somewhere deep down, that it might turn out different.

Ellie remembered the way Dina looked at her. Like she was trying to memorize her, even as the distance between them had already begun to open. Like she knew Ellie was already halfway gone.

They didn’t say much after that. There weren’t words big enough for what they were losing—not again. Not like this.

Now, back in her room, the silence pressed harder than it had all morning. Ellie sat motionless, hands resting in her lap, her fists clenched around fabric she hadn’t realized she was gripping. The weight of that moment—the way Dina hadn’t tried to stop her—settled over her like dust.

She told herself it was for JJ. For Dina. For herself.

You’re doing this for the right reasons, she whispered in her mind, like a prayer, like a defense.

But it didn’t soften the ache in her chest. If anything, it made it worse. Because even if the reasons were right, even if the pull toward Santa Catalina made sense, it didn’t change the shape of what she was leaving behind.

This wasn’t just a decision.

It was another goodbye.

And Ellie was running out of people she could bear to say that to.

___

As Ellie rummaged through her belongings, her fingers brushed against the edges of a couple blank journals, buried deep at the back of a drawer she hadn’t opened in months. She slid them out slowly, thumbing the stiff, untouched pages. There was something sacred about the emptiness. Something terrifying, too. These pages would carry whatever came next—whatever she survived, whatever broke her. They would hold what she couldn’t say aloud.

A fresh start, maybe. Or at least the illusion of one.

But no matter how clean the paper felt beneath her hands, her mind couldn’t stay there. It drifted, uninvited, back to the moment she told Maria and Tommy she was leaving.

It hadn’t been some calm discussion over tea.

It had been cold. The kind of cold that didn’t come from the weather.

Tommy had answered the door, his limp more noticeable than usual, his good eye squinting like he already knew she wasn’t there for a visit. “Something wrong?” he asked, stepping aside.

Maria had been in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hands busy with something domestic—something grounding. But she looked up the moment Ellie stepped in. She didn’t speak, not at first. She just watched Ellie the way a mother watches a storm forming over the horizon.

“I’m going,” Ellie said. No build-up. No softening the blow.

“To Santa Catalina,” she added, in case they hadn’t already guessed.

Tommy's reaction had been immediate. Sharp. “The hell you are.”

Ellie braced for it. She didn’t flinch.

Tommy's jaw tightened, his voice low and bitter. “After everything we’ve been through to bring you back? After what you pulled in Salt Lake, Seattle and Santa Barbara—you wanna run off with them again?”

Maria stepped closer, placing a hand on his arm, but he shook her off.

Ellie kept her voice even. “This isn’t revenge. It’s not about Abby. It’s not about the past.”

Tommy scoffed. “It’s always about the past.”

She stared him down. “This is about my mother.”

That shut him up—just for a second.

Maria’s brow furrowed. “Anna?”

Ellie nodded. “There’s a doctor there. He knew her.”

Tommy let out a bitter laugh, half disbelief, half heartbreak. “You think that matters now? You think chasing ghosts is gonna fix anything?”

“I need to know,” Ellie said. Her voice cracked, not from weakness—but from the weight of it. “For once in my life, I need to know something real. Something that isn’t just pain.”

Tommy looked like he wanted to yell. Instead, he stepped forward, lowering his voice to something sharp and cruel. “Joel died for you. You repaid him by lettin’ him get murdered.”

The silence that followed felt like a knife twisting in the gut.

Ellie didn’t move. Her fists clenched at her sides. Her throat burned.

“I’m not Sarah,” she said, quietly. “And Joel wasn’t my dad.”

That landed harder than she meant it to.

Tommy turned away, jaw clenched, hands shaking at his sides. Maria stepped in before he could say something worse. “Ellie… Are you sure? Are you sure this isn’t something you’ll regret?”

Ellie swallowed. She didn’t trust her voice, so she just nodded.

And Maria, after a long pause, whispered, “Then come back. Whatever you find—just come back.”

Tommy didn’t speak again.

Now, sitting on the edge of her bed, the journals in her lap, Ellie closed her eyes. The words still echoed. Not Joel’s. Not Maria’s.

You repaid him by lettin’ him get murdered.

But that wasn’t what this was about. Not anymore.

She pulled a pen from the drawer, opened the first blank journal, and pressed it against her knees.

Then she wrote the date.

And below it: I'm going. Because I have to.

___

Ellie couldn’t shake it.

The weight of Tommy’s voice still hung in her chest like smoke that wouldn’t clear. It hadn’t faded with sleep. It hadn’t softened with time. Every word he’d said circled back through her like a loop she couldn’t shut off—You repaid him by lettin’ him get murdered. It wasn’t the anger that gutted her. It was the disappointment. The betrayal. Like she had shattered something sacred just by existing.

She had carried guilt like a second skin since the day she stepped back into Jackson. Since the farm. Since Santa Barbara. But now it felt raw again, reopened. And she couldn’t tell if it was eating her alive or pushing her forward.

By the time morning came, Ellie hadn’t slept. She had sat in the dark until the pale blue of dawn bled through the cracks in the house walls, her fingers clenched so tightly around her sleeves that the fabric left imprints on her skin.

The town hall was cold when she arrived, too early for most of Jackson to be awake. The light coming through the upper beams was thin, dust-filled, and gray, like the sky hadn’t decided what kind of day it wanted to be.

Maria was already in her office. She was alone—Tommy’s absence stark, the kind of silence you notice only when someone’s anger is usually the loudest thing in the room.

“Ellie,” Maria said softly, nodding once. “I need to talk to you.”

Ellie stepped inside. She took the chair across from her, her hands gripping the arms like a lifeline, like she could hold herself still if she held hard enough.

She braced herself for judgment, for the same fire Tommy had thrown at her. But Maria’s voice came low and calm. Too calm.

“I don’t understand this,” she said. “I don’t understand why you feel the need to go—and I really don’t understand why Dina seems so... compliant about it.”

The words hit differently. Maria’s tone wasn’t cruel, but it was cutting in its own way—subtle, intimate, almost maternal. Ellie winced, jaw tightening. She’d prepared for a fight, not this quiet ache.

“Dina isn’t compliant,” Ellie said after a pause. Her voice was hoarse from the cold—or the night. “She just... she knows better than to try and stop me.”

Maria’s face softened, but the worry didn’t fade. If anything, it grew heavier.

“I think this is a bad decision,” she said, leaning forward slightly, elbows on the desk. “Ellie, it’s only been a few weeks since... everything. Since your episode.”

That word—episode—landed like a bruise. Ellie dropped her gaze, her shoulders curling slightly inward.

Maria didn’t let the silence linger. “You were shaking. Unconscious. You didn’t even recognize Dina when you woke up. You were gone, Ellie. Not just panicking—you were gone.”

Ellie closed her eyes, the memory slicing through her. Dina’s voice calling her back. The feel of JJ’s crying echoing in her skull like gunshots. Her own voice—mumbling names that didn’t belong in this timeline. Anna. Riley. Marlene.

She swallowed hard. “I know.”

“Do you?” Maria’s voice was gentler now, but firmer too. “You’re not in perfect health. Physically, sure—you’ve always been tough. But emotionally? Mentally?” She shook her head. “You’re not steady, Ellie. And this trip… it’s not just some weekend patrol. It’s across the country. With strangers. With Fireflies.”

Ellie looked up then, and for the first time that morning, something sharp glinted in her eyes. Not defiance. Not rebellion.

Grief.

“I’m not okay,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “But I won’t be okay if I stay, either.”

Maria’s breath caught.

“I need to do this,” Ellie added. “Not because I’m better. But because if I don’t—if I stay and pretend like I can just move on—I’ll break again. I’ll break worse.”

She didn’t cry. She didn’t shout. But the silence that followed her words felt like something sacred had just been said aloud for the first time.

Maria didn’t respond right away. She just looked at Ellie—the broken girl in front of her, the one who never asked to be immune, who had lost too many people and was still somehow standing.

And then, with a voice that trembled just enough to betray her heart: “Then promise me you’ll come back.”

Ellie nodded once. But neither of them said what they were thinking.

Coming back wasn’t always up to her.

Ellie’s chest tightened, her breath shallow in her throat as she listened—again—to someone telling her she wasn’t ready. That she couldn’t handle it. That her choices didn’t belong to her.

It was happening all over again. The same undertone she’d felt her entire life. Like she was broken. Like the moment she had spiraled in the town hall—once—meant she wasn’t allowed to decide what her own body, her own soul, needed.

Maria sighed, her voice softening but never yielding. “I don’t think you’re reasoning like yourself,” she said carefully. “Leaving Jackson… this isn’t clarity, Ellie. It’s part of your PTSD. You’re running, trying to fix the guilt by chasing ghosts. It won’t help. You know that.”

Ellie’s fingers dug tighter into the arms of the chair. The tension moved through her whole body, her shoulders rising, her jaw locked so tight it trembled. Her knuckles turned white.

But she didn’t shout. Not yet.

“I’m not running,” she said, her voice raw, pushing through the storm in her chest. “I need this.”

Her throat burned. “I need to know about my mom. I need to help—if I can even be useful anymore—for that fucking cure. I need to do something.”

Maria’s expression shifted, softening at the edges. But her eyes held firm, as if she'd been preparing this kind of conversation since the moment she met Ellie. “I know you want answers,” she said gently, “but right now? You’re still healing. And it’s not weakness to stay. You’ve got people here who love you. Dina. JJ. Me. Tommy. This—this is your family, Ellie. You don’t have to go looking for something you already have.”

That word.

Family.

It pierced deeper than any accusation.

Ellie’s heart spasmed at the sound of it. Her vision blurred—not from tears yet, but from the fury building behind them. It hit the place in her chest where the hollowness still lived. Where Joel used to be. Where Anna had never been. Where love went to die when it wasn’t enough.

Her body moved before she could stop it.

She stood, the chair screeching violently against the wooden floor, the sound jagged like a wound torn open. Her breath came harder now, broken at the edges.

“I need to know about my real mother,” she snapped. Her voice cracked, her eyes wide and stinging. “Not you. Not Tommy. Not this fucking town.”

Maria didn’t react right away. She stood slowly, one hand bracing against the edge of her desk. Her expression didn’t shift much—but there was something there. A flicker behind the calm. Not shock. Not offense.

Just sadness.

Maybe even understanding.

“I prefer you to stay, Ellie,” Maria said, her voice low and level. “But I know you better than that.”

Ellie’s chest rose and fell, ragged with breath she couldn’t seem to catch. Her arms were shaking.

Maria didn’t reach for her. Didn’t try to stop her. Just let the silence speak for her. And it did.

It said: You’re going. And I can’t stop you. But I still wish you wouldn’t.

The words hit Ellie like a punch to the ribs—not sharp, but deep. The kind of impact that knocked something loose inside her chest. Maria had said almost the exact same thing years ago, when Ellie had stood on the threshold of the gate, backpack on, fire in her veins, rage lighting her path to Seattle.

Back then, Maria had seen the same look on her face. Back then, she hadn’t stopped her either.

The memory rocked Ellie’s balance for a second, Maria’s calm voice cutting through the fog of frustration and grief like a blade honed on truth. Ellie opened her mouth, instinctively trying to answer—but nothing came. Her throat locked up, her tongue frozen against words that couldn’t express what churned inside her.

Gratitude.

And resentment.

Two wolves in her chest, tearing in opposite directions. She hated that Maria saw her so clearly. She needed someone to see her right now.

Her hands, still trembling, fell to her sides.

Maria sat back down slowly, the chair creaking beneath her as her gaze softened. “How do you plan to go?” she asked gently, the weight behind her voice stripped bare. “Are you going with Lev’s group? Or... do you want Dina and JJ with you?”

Ellie blinked, as if the question had come from somewhere far away.

For a moment—barely more than a breath—she imagined it. Dina’s hand in hers. JJ on her hip. The road unfolding behind them, together, like some broken family stitching itself back up on the move. Like they could outrun the ghosts if they moved fast enough.

But that was just a dream. The world didn’t let you keep the people you loved. Not out there. Not when you were born to bleed.

“No,” she said, voice steady, but dull. “I’ll go alone. With Lev and the Fireflies.”

Maria nodded slowly, her eyes flickering with something that almost looked like sorrow—or maybe acceptance. Her jaw clenched once before she spoke again.

“I still don’t think this is a good idea,” she said, her voice softer than before. “But... I haven’t seen you this determined in a long time.”

The words were a quiet offering, but they didn’t ease the ache building in Ellie’s throat. Still, something shifted. A thread loosened in the knot around her chest—not enough to breathe freely, but enough to remind her she wasn’t being caged.

She gave a small nod. It was all she could manage. Her lips parted like she might try to say thank you—for what, she wasn’t sure. For seeing her. For not begging her to stay. For still standing with her, even when she was breaking every promise.

But the words got stuck, lodged behind too much pain.

So instead, she turned toward the door, her boots whispering over the wooden floor. She opened it with a hand that trembled just slightly.

And left the office in silence.

___

Back in her room, Ellie moved with mechanical precision, as if the weight in her limbs could be ignored if she focused hard enough. She zipped the bag shut slowly, the sound loud in the stillness around her. Her fingers paused at the end of the zipper, hovering there, her breath catching in her throat. She exhaled, long and shaky, trying to convince herself she was ready.

She wasn’t.

Grabbing the first bag and slinging her personal backpack over one shoulder, she made her way downstairs in silence, placing them by the front door like that would somehow make this all feel real. The weight of them felt wrong. Heavy, yes—but not in the way gear was supposed to feel. It was the weight of something she hadn’t named yet. Something she didn’t want to name.

She turned back toward the stairs, her legs stiff, chest tightening with each step. The house was quiet in a way that wasn’t peaceful. It was waiting.

She reached the top step when she heard it.

Soft, trembling. A sound too small to be anything else.

Sobs.

Ellie froze.

It wasn’t loud—barely there, like someone trying not to be heard—but it cut through her like glass. She didn’t need to guess. Her body already knew. The ache bloomed before her brain caught up.

She pushed the bedroom door open slowly.

And there she was.

Dina sat on the edge of the bed, hunched over, her body curled in on itself like she was trying to stay small, trying to hold something inside that was already breaking loose. Her shoulders shook in uneven rhythms. In her hands was a familiar piece of paper—creases worn deep into the corners, the pencil lines smudged in places from time and touch.

Ellie’s drawing.

The one with all three of them—Dina, JJ, and herself—smiling. A fire in the background. JJ’s hands raised in laughter. It was the last thing she had drawn before it all fell apart. Before Santa Barbara. Before the space between them had turned cold and vast.

“Dina…”

Her voice cracked on the name, softer than she meant it to be. Her heart was already beating faster, her throat thick. She stepped into the room, quiet, like she was intruding on something sacred.

Dina didn’t look up right away. Her thumbs traced the lines of the paper—slow, trembling—as if she could memorize it. As if she could press it into her skin and keep it there.

When she finally met Ellie’s eyes, her own were red, tear-slicked, rimmed with everything she hadn’t said.

“I... I didn’t mean to—” she started, her voice barely above a breath, broken and breathless. “I just... I found this, and... I thought maybe... I thought maybe it still meant something.”

Ellie swallowed hard. The room tilted.

She crossed the space between them slowly, her legs barely steady beneath her, and sank onto the bed beside Dina. The mattress dipped beneath their weight but didn’t shift the tension. It sat there between them—thick, suffocating.

She didn’t know what to say.

What could she say?

Her guilt gnawed at her insides like something alive, clawing its way through her ribs. She had made her choice. She was leaving. She had to. But sitting here beside Dina, watching her fall apart, holding that drawing like it was all that was left of their family—

It hurt in a way she hadn’t prepared for.

Ellie reached out, slowly, her fingers brushing against Dina’s, curling gently around her hand, around the edge of the paper. Dina didn’t pull away. But she didn’t squeeze back either.

“I didn’t stop loving you,” Dina whispered suddenly, voice so quiet it barely reached Ellie’s ears. “I just got tired of losing you.”

Ellie shut her eyes.

The words hit deeper than Tommy’s ever could.

And still, she couldn’t stay.

Because what she needed... wasn’t here.

But God, she wanted it to be.

She leaned forward, pressing her forehead gently to the side of Dina’s head. “I know,” she whispered. “I know.”

They sat like that for a while—shoulders touching, breaths uneven, grief thick in the space between them.

Ellie reached out slowly, her hand trembling as her fingers brushed against the corner of the drawing. She eased it from Dina’s hands with the same care she might’ve used to handle a wound. The paper was thin, delicate, but it felt so much heavier than it should have. Its weight wasn't in ink or graphite—it was in what it used to mean. In what it still meant, even if they were falling apart.

She turned and set it gently on the nightstand, where it would remain behind—where it could still belong. Where she no longer could.

Then, wordlessly, she placed her palm on Dina’s back. Her thumb moved in slow circles, light and deliberate, the only kind of comfort she had left to offer. She didn’t trust her voice. Didn’t trust that it would do anything but break.

Dina’s breath hitched, her body shifting just enough for her to reach out. Her hand found Ellie’s, gripping it like it was the last solid thing in a crumbling world. Then she leaned into Ellie, her head resting against her shoulder, the sobs returning in quiet, jagged waves. Each one broke through Ellie’s chest like aftershocks—small tremors that left deeper cracks.

They sat like that for a long while. Time stretched thin, bending under the weight of everything they weren’t saying.

Then Dina spoke, her voice cracked and hoarse, the words barely stitched together. “I don’t understand you, Ellie,” she whispered. “I don’t get it. How can you be so drawn to... all this?” Her breath caught again. “To danger, to loss, to needing answers—when you have a reason to stay right here? You have us. JJ and me. We love you. We’re trying. We want you to heal. We want you to be okay. Why isn’t that enough?”

Each word was a thread unraveling. Not angry. Just... devastated. Like she was watching Ellie vanish in slow motion and didn’t know how to hold her still.

Ellie closed her eyes, pressing her cheek against the top of Dina’s head, letting her own tears fall silently into her curls. Her jaw clenched hard, her throat ached, her body screaming at her to say something. To give Dina a reason. A real one.

But she didn’t have it.

Only that whisper in her chest that never went quiet. That pull she couldn't name. That feeling that she was unfinished, broken in ways Jackson couldn’t fix.

“I don’t know, Dina,” she said finally, her voice cracking open on the words. “I don’t know.”

It was the truth. And it was the only thing she had left.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Heavy. A silence that remembered every promise they once made. A silence that knew none of them were going to be kept.

Ellie’s hand stayed on Dina’s back, her other still laced with hers. She held on like she could freeze time, like maybe if they didn’t move, this moment wouldn’t have to end. That maybe the smell of Dina’s skin, the way her body folded into Ellie’s, the soft pulse beneath her fingertips—maybe all of it could be enough to stay.

But it wasn’t.

And God, she hated that it wasn’t.

Then, without warning, Dina lifted her head.

Her face was close—too close—and Ellie froze as their eyes met. Dina’s cheeks were streaked with tears, her lips parted like she’d meant to speak but lost the words halfway to her tongue. Her gaze locked onto Ellie’s, desperate and unguarded, like she was searching for something—anything—in those green eyes. A flicker of hope. A change of heart. A reason to believe this wasn’t really happening.

Ellie didn’t breathe.

Dina’s hand slipped free from hers, slow, trembling. Not to pull away—but to reach up. She cupped Ellie’s face gently, her thumb brushing across her cheek, across the curve of her jaw, like she needed to memorize her again. Like maybe if she traced her long enough, Ellie wouldn’t disappear.

Her touch was reverent. Familiar. Wrecked.

And then—Dina kissed her.

It was quiet. No urgency. No sharp inhale, no dramatic lunge. Just lips meeting lips like two waves folding into each other—soft, aching, inevitable.

It wasn’t like the kisses they’d tried to hold onto since Jackson. Not the ones they gave each other to pretend they were okay. Not the hollow pecks goodnight. Not the ones that tasted like restraint.

This one was full.

Desperate in the way that grief was. Desperate in the way that said, please remember us.

Dina’s lips trembled against Ellie’s, her hands still holding her face like she was afraid letting go would mean losing her forever. She wasn’t asking for passion. She wasn’t trying to spark something new. She was trying to hold on—to everything they had been, everything they still could be.

And Ellie—

Ellie felt her breath catch in her throat.

Her heart beat like it didn’t know what to do.

She didn’t pull away.

But she didn’t fall into it either.

Not because she didn’t feel it. She felt everything. Too much. The taste of salt on Dina’s mouth. The way their foreheads brushed when the kiss broke for breath. The scent of Dina’s shampoo, faint and familiar. The warmth of her palms on her cheeks.

She felt like she was drowning in it.

And that’s what made it complicated.

Because she loved her. Still. Fiercely. But the ground beneath her had shifted too many times, and her mind couldn’t keep up with the flood.

Dina’s kiss wasn’t demanding—it was pleading.

Please don’t leave me again.

And Ellie...

Ellie was already halfway out the door.

Dina’s hands slid down to Ellie’s shoulders—soft, steady, and so gentle it made Ellie’s chest ache. There was no pressure in her touch, only purpose. Only a quiet insistence: I’m still here. You still have a home.

Ellie let herself lean into it.

Not because she knew what she was doing.

But because she didn’t know how not to.

Into Dina’s warmth. Into the slow burn of her breath against her skin. Into the love that still lived between them like a dying ember refusing to go cold. Her lips moved instinctively, responding to the kiss like her body had never forgotten the rhythm—even if her heart didn’t know how to follow anymore.

But her mind—God, her mind was nowhere near.

It was spinning. Flickering between memory and guilt. Between JJ’s laughter and Maria’s words. Between that damn drawing and the image of a woman she’d never known—Anna—hovering like a ghost just out of reach.

Dina deepened the kiss, and Ellie felt her fingers slide into her hair, threading through with such care it nearly broke her. She pulled her closer—not forcefully, not out of need—but like she was anchoring her. Like if she just held tight enough, Ellie might forget she was leaving.

And maybe she would’ve.

If her soul hadn’t already taken a step outside the door.

Ellie could feel Dina’s grief. It was in every brush of her lips, in the tremble in her breath, in the way her hands moved across Ellie’s body with a tenderness that was almost reverent. There was no rush. No fire. Only the deep, aching slowness of someone holding something precious for the last time.

This wasn’t just a kiss.

It was a plea.

A prayer whispered between mouths. A last-ditch tether flung across a collapsing bridge. The only thing Dina had left to give.

And Ellie—despite the storm raging in her chest, despite the confusion, the shame, the unbearable weight of what she was about to do—let her.

She didn’t pull away.

She couldn’t.

She leaned into the kiss, into the touch, into the quiet sob of love still trying to hold her in place. Because she knew. Deep down, she knew.

This was a goodbye.

Even if neither of them said it out loud.

Ellie felt it in the way her lips lingered too long, trembling just slightly at the corners. In the way her hands guided Ellie’s over her skin—not hungry, not rushed, but careful. Memorizing. Offering. Remember me like this.

It wasn’t just touch.

It was a plea wrapped in reverence. A slow, burning kind of love, thick with longing and threaded with quiet despair. Dina gave herself over without resistance, not to possess Ellie, but to hold her. To keep her—just for this.

And Ellie—

Ellie kissed her back, her hands following the curves she knew by heart. But there was hesitation in every motion. A slight delay in every caress. Her fingers traced Dina’s spine like they didn’t trust themselves to stay.

She wanted to be present. God, she wanted to fall into this moment and drown in it, forget everything waiting beyond the walls of their room. But the guilt pulled at her ribs, sharp and relentless. It whispered that she didn’t deserve this—not now, not like this.

That she was leaving.

That love—this love—wasn’t enough.

Dina’s lips moved against hers with a fierce tenderness, slow but insistent, like she could kiss Ellie into staying. Her body pressed closer, molding against her like she was trying to erase the space that had grown between them.

She took the lead—not because she wanted control, but because she was offering something wordless. Something soft. Her hands didn’t demand. They invited. Her voice, low and trembling, whispered Ellie’s name between kisses like a litany, like a spell.

But beneath all of it, Ellie felt it.

The deeper current.

The desperation.

This wasn’t just passion. This wasn’t just love.

This was Dina breaking quietly—and giving Ellie the last piece of herself in the hope that maybe it would be enough to stop her.

And Ellie, torn in half, let it happen.

Because she didn’t have the strength to say goodbye out loud. Not yet.

They moved together slowly, as if time had folded in on itself.

There was no rush, no urgency. Only aching, deliberate intimacy. Every breath shared between them felt sacred. Every kiss landed like a farewell written into skin. Dina’s hands guided Ellie’s with quiet reverence, mapping the terrain of her body one last time—not to spark desire, but to remember her. To hold her in a way that said, this is all I have left to give you.

And Ellie—

Ellie gave herself over to it, not out of desire, not even out of comfort, but out of love.

Out of grief.

Because they both knew.

This was their last time.

Their last night as lovers.

Not because they didn’t love each other.

But because Ellie was already gone.

Even as she touched Dina’s skin with aching care—even as she kissed her like she didn’t want the moment to end—her soul was folding itself into departure. And Dina felt it. In the hesitation between kisses. In the way Ellie’s hands lingered like they weren’t sure if they had the right. In the tears that wet the corner of Ellie’s eye even as she pressed her forehead to Dina’s.

“I love you,” Dina whispered, voice trembling, her breath caught against Ellie’s lips.

Ellie kissed her in response. Long. Slow. Full of every apology she couldn't speak. Every promise she would never be able to keep.

When it ended, they lay tangled in the sheets, breathing heavy, hearts trying to remember how to beat without breaking. Ellie’s hand rested over Dina’s ribcage, fingers splayed like she wanted to count every breath left between them.

But her eyes weren’t on Dina.

They were on the ceiling.

Already somewhere else.

Dina turned her head toward her, eyes red, voice hollow but steady. “You’re still going, aren’t you?”

It wasn’t a question.

Ellie didn’t nod. Didn’t speak.

She just leaned in and kissed her again—softly, tenderly, reverently—like the act itself was too fragile to survive outside of this moment.

And when she pulled away…

She didn’t meet Dina’s eyes.

The silence stretched.

Outside, the world was still sleeping.

But inside, it had already ended.

This was it.

Their last night.

Their last time.

And Ellie was still in Dina’s arms.

But the girl Dina loved was already gone.

Chapter Text

The first light of morning filtered through the window, soft and gray, casting long slashes across the bedroom floor. Ellie didn’t move. She lay flat on her back, eyes wide open, locked on the ceiling above like it might split open and offer her something—comfort, clarity, anything.

But it didn’t. The silence pressed against her, thick and smothering.

Last night clung to her skin like sweat. Like blood. It felt unreal now, like a dream already drifting from memory—Dina’s lips, her warmth, the way her hands trembled and held on anyway. Love, yes. Desperate, fierce love. But also something final. Something that had already said goodbye.

Beside her, the bed was cold.

Dina was gone.

Not just out of the room—gone in that way that made the absence hurt more. Like she’d slipped away before dawn had a chance to pull them apart. Like she knew Ellie wouldn’t stay, and couldn’t bear to watch her leave again.

Ellie’s chest ached, a raw throb that pulsed deeper than any scar on her skin. She swallowed, but the lump in her throat refused to budge. Her limbs felt heavy, sunk into the mattress like stone.

You’re doing this for answers, she told herself. For Anna. For the cure. For JJ.

But none of those names filled the silence beside her.

The weight of her choice bore down on her ribs until she finally moved. Not out of will. Just necessity. Her body rose like it had been trained—muscle memory taking over where resolve had fractured. Jeans. Flannel. Switchblade. Boots. She moved through it all as if she were suiting up for patrol, not tearing her life open.

Before she left the room, Ellie paused at the desk.

She reached for the photograph.

Her mother’s face—Anna—frozen in time, smiling with a kind of warmth Ellie had only ever imagined. Beside it, the letter. That final whisper from a woman she never got to know, yet carried in her bones like a phantom limb.

Ellie looked at them both, her fingers trembling just slightly as she brought them together.

Carefully, she folded the photo into the letter, tucking them into the inside pocket of her flannel. Right over her heart. Close enough to feel.

Something to carry forward.

Downstairs, she knew Dina would be there. Quiet. Hands busy. A single plate set on the table—out of love or routine, Ellie couldn’t tell anymore. There’d be no words. Not today.

Not after last night.

Ellie hesitated at the top of the stairs, fingers curling into the edge of the banister. Just for a second. Just long enough for her to wish she could unmake all of it. Climb back into that bed. Pretend none of this was happening.

But pretending was a luxury she’d lost a long time ago.

She stepped down, every tread creaking louder than the last, like the house itself was trying to hold her back.

But Ellie was already gone.

___

Ellie descended the stairs slowly, her hand trailing along the banister like it might steady her breath. Every step echoed in her chest, hollow and final. The house was quiet, but not peaceful—held-breath quiet, like it knew what was about to happen.

The smell of coffee met her first—rich, dark, familiar. It mingled with the faint scent of toasted bread, warm and soft, as if the morning could pretend to be ordinary.

In the kitchen, Dina stood at the counter, her back to Ellie, pouring two mugs with the same care she gave every morning. Her shoulders were set too straight, too still. She didn’t turn when Ellie entered. She didn’t need to.

The silence between them said everything.

“Morning,” Ellie muttered. Her voice came out low, scratchy—not just from sleep, but from something buried deeper. Emotion thickening the back of her throat, coiled tight and refusing to move.

“Morning,” Dina replied, just as quiet. Her eyes stayed fixed on the counter as she slid one of the mugs forward, her fingers barely brushing the ceramic. The gesture was careful, not cold—but there was no warmth in it either. Just… necessity. Just two people trying to share something when the rest had already slipped through their hands.

Ellie stepped forward, took the mug, and sat.

They didn’t speak.

The only sounds in the kitchen were the soft clink of mugs, the creak of chairs shifting, the dull ticking of the old clock on the wall. Minutes passed—or maybe just seconds, but they felt stretched thin, fragile as spun glass.

They sipped their coffee in silence, and the silence hurt more than words ever could.

Ellie stared down at the rising steam, willing it to blur the world, to fill the space between them with something other than the weight of goodbye. But it didn’t. It just rose and vanished.

Nothing left but the heat in her hands, and the ache behind her ribs.

There was nothing left to say. Not after last night. Dina had already said goodbye the only way she knew how—with her body, with her touch, with that trembling kiss that tried to hold Ellie here without asking her to stay.

And Ellie had let her.

That silence now wasn’t empty—it was the echo of everything they had poured into that last embrace. A slow unraveling. Quiet. Inevitable.

They drank their coffee like it was armor.

Like if they just stayed still enough, maybe time would stop. Maybe this wouldn’t be the last morning.

But Ellie already knew.

She was leaving. And nothing could unmake that now.

After a long stretch of silence, it was Dina who finally broke it. Her voice was quiet—fragile around the edges. “You sure about this?”

Ellie didn’t answer right away. Her eyes stayed fixed on the rim of her mug, fingers curling tighter around the heat. When she finally nodded, it was slow, like the movement took effort. “Yeah.”

That single word lingered between them, heavy and irreversible.

Dina exhaled, almost a sigh, almost a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Her eyes drifted to the window, to the pale light outside. “You’ll be careful?”

Ellie looked up.

For the first time that morning, their eyes met.

“I will,” she said—soft, but certain. And Dina knew she meant it. Knew it wouldn’t be enough.

Dina gave a small nod, then turned away, her hands moving automatically toward the sink. She began to wash the already-clean mugs with slow, deliberate motions—scrubbing at nothing, rinsing what didn’t need rinsing.

Ellie watched her from behind, wanting to reach out, to say something, anything—but there was nothing left that wouldn’t make it worse.

They both knew it.

The dishes clinked softly beneath the running water. A quiet, ordinary sound in a morning that felt anything but.

And just like that, the goodbye began—not with a hug, not with a kiss, not even with a word.

But with two clean mugs. And silence.

___

Later, once the last bag was zipped and the house had grown too quiet to stay in, Ellie stepped outside.

The morning had settled into a cool stillness, as if the world itself was holding its breath. On the porch, just past the railing, Robin stood with JJ in her arms, swaying gently. His little body bounced in rhythm to her hums, though her voice was barely more than a vibration in her chest. JJ babbled at the sky, at her necklace, at nothing in particular—his words a string of sounds still untouched by meaning.

Ellie froze for a second at the sight of him. His little legs kicking lazily, his hands reaching for nothing and everything. So full of life. So damn unaware.

It tugged something deep and sharp inside her.

She crossed the distance slowly, each step sinking heavier than the last. JJ saw her and lit up immediately, a wide smile spreading across his face. His arms stretched toward her with the same blind trust that had always shattered her.

Ellie swallowed hard and took him from Robin, settling him into her arms. He was warm, his giggle soft against her shoulder. It broke her. A little.

“Hey, little man,” she whispered, kissing the top of his head, breathing in the scent of his curls—grass, bread, the soap Dina used. Her voice cracked. “I’m gonna miss you. You know that?”

JJ made a soft cooing sound, his fingers curling into the collar of her shirt, tugging gently like he didn’t want her to go. Or maybe just because he liked the texture. He didn’t understand, not really.

And that’s what hurt most.

He didn’t know this was goodbye.

Ellie’s eyes stung as she held him tighter, memorizing the weight of him, the way he fit against her chest, the tiny noises he made when he was calm like this. He was growing so fast. If she was gone long enough… would he still remember her?

“I hope…” she began, voice trembling, “I hope you’ll understand someday. Why I have to go. Why I can’t stay.” She pressed her lips to his temple. “But you’re gonna be okay. You’ve got your mom. You’ve got this whole place. You’ve got so much more than I ever did.”

Robin stood quietly nearby, her hands folded across her stomach, eyes kind but unreadable. She didn’t interrupt. Didn’t need to. Her silence held more understanding than any words could have.

Ellie shifted JJ slightly, her hands beginning to tremble. She kissed his cheek again—softer this time, like a prayer—and slowly handed him back to Robin.

Her arms ached the second they were empty.

“Take care of him for me, okay?” Her voice was barely a whisper now.

Robin nodded once, steady and sure. “Of course. He’ll be just fine.”

Ellie gave a small nod, her throat too tight for more. She forced a smile—something to hide behind—but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Thanks, Robin,” she murmured, already taking a step back. Already retreating before she unraveled.

Robin didn’t try to stop her.

She just watched.

And held Ellie’s entire world in her arms.

___

Ellie saddled Ember in silence.

The stable smelled of hay and old sweat, the kind of familiar comfort that didn’t soothe her anymore. Her fingers moved with practiced precision—tightening straps, checking weight, looping reins—trying to keep her hands busy so her mind wouldn’t slip.

But it slipped anyway.

Every buckle she fastened felt like sealing a goodbye. Every bag tied down was another reason not to turn back.

She didn’t hear Tommy approach until she saw his shadow fall across the stable floor.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stepped in beside her, his movements quiet, deliberate. His presence was like gravity—solid, heavy. Familiar in a way that reminded her more of Joel than she could stand.

Together, they adjusted the final straps. He pulled one tighter with a grunt, then double-checked the side pouch without asking. He didn’t need to ask. He knew what she was doing.

When they finished, Tommy stepped back, arms folding across his chest like he was holding something in.

"You really gonna do this?" he asked, voice low. It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t pleading. It was tired. Resigned. Like he’d seen too many people walk away and knew when not to chase.

Ellie nodded, her eyes locked on the saddle. “Yeah.”

That single word cracked something.

Tommy exhaled slow and hard, dragging a hand across his jaw. “You’re throwin’ everything away again… for what? A name?” His gaze sharpened. “You don’t even know this guy. What makes you think it’s worth it?”

Ellie swallowed.

Her fingers flexed at her sides. She didn’t look at him.

“You think there’s answers waitin’ for you out there?” he continued, voice rising a notch. “Ellie, that road—you know what it costs. Every goddamn time you leave, it takes more of you.”

She nodded again, smaller this time. Not in defiance. Not in apology.

Just truth.

“I know,” she said quietly.

Tommy’s expression darkened. “Then why?”

Ellie looked up.

Her eyes were tired. Red around the edges. But steady. “Because if I don’t go... I’ll never stop hearing him call me selfish.”

The words hit harder than a slap.

Tommy flinched—not visibly, but Ellie saw it. His jaw tightened. His eye flicked to her chest, where she’d tucked Anna’s letter and photo beneath her flannel.

He didn’t ask what she meant. He didn’t need to.

They stood there, the silence thick between them.

Then Tommy took a slow step forward, resting a hand on the saddle horn, like he needed something to hold onto.

"You come back," he said, quieter now. Less anger. More ache. "You come back, y’hear me?"

Ellie met his gaze. “I will.”

But neither of them believed it.

Not fully.

___

Maria was already waiting by the gate when Ellie approached, Ember’s hooves crunching softly over the dirt. The morning light made the walls of Jackson glow faintly, like the place itself didn’t want to let her go.

Maria’s arms were crossed, but not with tension—just to hold something in. Her expression was softer than Tommy’s had been. Less fire. More ache. There was no judgment in her eyes. Just quiet sadness.

“I wish you didn’t have to go,” Maria said as Ellie brought Ember to a stop beside her. “But I know you’ve already made up your mind.”

Ellie gave a small nod, unable to form words. Her throat felt too tight. Too raw.

Maria had always understood something about Ellie that others didn’t—how she was stitched together by grief and grit and the terrible need to do something. She never tried to cage Ellie, not even after Santa Barbara. She just... stood by the gate.

“I won’t pretend it’s easy to watch you ride out again,” Maria said, voice lower now. “But you’ll always be part of this family, Ellie. No matter what. Don’t forget that.”

Before Ellie could respond, Maria stepped in and pulled her into a hug.

It was brief—but it held tight.

The kind of hug you give someone you might not see again.

Ellie’s arms came up slowly around her. She didn’t want to let go.

When they pulled apart, Maria’s hand stayed on her shoulder a second longer than needed, as if anchoring her one last time.

Ellie swallowed hard, nodded. “I won’t forget.”

As she turned Ember toward the open road, her eyes scanned the small crowd that had gathered. A few quiet faces. The Fireflies, waiting at a respectful distance. Lev, watching her with calm patience.

And then—farther back, almost at the edge of town—Dina.

She stood apart from the others, JJ nestled against her shoulder, his tiny fingers curled into the fabric of her shirt. She wasn’t moving. Just standing there, her gaze locked on Ellie.

Their eyes met across the space.

For a second, the whole world went still.

There was something in Dina’s expression—something brittle and burning. Hope, maybe. Or maybe it was goodbye. Or maybe it was both. Ellie couldn’t tell. She wanted to—God, she wanted to know—but before she could be sure, Dina looked away.

She turned her back, walked toward the house.

No wave. No words. Just the curve of her spine retreating into the distance, JJ’s head resting against her neck.

Ellie felt the breath go out of her lungs.

She gave herself one second. Just one.

Then she pulled herself into the saddle.

The leather creaked beneath her, and the weight of everything she was carrying—memories, regrets, hope too sharp to hold—settled deep in her bones.

She didn’t look back again.

___

The gates groaned open behind her, a long, aching sound that cut through the stillness of the morning like a wound tearing itself wider. No one spoke. There were no goodbyes shouted, no promises called out behind her. Just the rhythmic crunch of Ember’s hooves over gravel, and the soft murmur of wind threading through the pines.

Lev rode ahead, silent as ever. His bow rested across his back, his posture upright and unreadable—either unbothered or simply used to this kind of emptiness. The Fireflies moved with him, six in total, flanking both sides with practiced ease, rifles slung, boots steady. Names had been offered. Ellie hadn’t kept them. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

She didn’t look back.

Not at the gates as they closed with a final, hollow thud.

Not at Jackson’s quiet streets disappearing behind her.

And not at Dina—who had walked away holding their son like a part of Ellie that could never follow.

Her hands clenched around the reins, leather biting into her palms. Her knuckles were bone-white, her jaw tight. The cold air stung her cheeks, but it couldn’t reach the heat burning inside her chest. Regret twisted sharp beneath her ribs, flaring brighter with every step Ember took.

She was already questioning herself. Already bleeding from the choice she’d made.

But then—

Her hand moved.

Almost without thinking, her fingers slipped inside the front pocket of her flannel, brushing against worn paper and the edge of a photograph.

She pulled them out slowly, careful not to let them bend.

Anna’s letter. Folded carefully, creased from the number of times it had been opened, touched, cried over. The picture, too—her mother’s face captured in a single breath of time, eyes caught between strength and sorrow.

Ellie stared at them in her lap, letting Ember walk on without guidance.

This is why.

Not for vengeance. Not even for redemption. But for answers. For the piece of herself that had always felt like a ghost. For the woman who died before Ellie ever had the chance to know what it meant to be loved without condition.

Her thumb brushed over Anna’s face, and something in her chest tightened—not with grief, but with need.

She folded the letter and photo back together, placing them gently where they belonged—close to her heart.

Then she sat straighter in the saddle.

Eyes forward.

Breath steady.

And she rode.

Not away.

But toward something.

Something she couldn’t name yet.

But would.

Eventually.

___

The days bled together.

Morning light seeped into pale, tired afternoons, and nights dropped heavy with aching legs, sore hands, and silence so wide it seemed to swallow sound. The world blurred—gray roads, brown hills, trees without leaves, sky without shape.

The group moved like strangers tied by thread. A machine with parts that didn’t quite trust each other. Ellie stayed near the back, out of step but within reach, close enough to hear them laugh or argue or mutter about routes—but always far enough to make sure no one would reach for her.

Their voices were static, background hums she didn’t want to know. She let their jokes roll past her, their meal plans, their talk of maps and weather and ration rotations. There was too much risk in hearing them as people. Too much danger in liking any of them.

At night, once the fire was lit and the others had started to drift into tired murmurs or sleep, Ellie would curl away—blanket pulled around her shoulders, back turned to the glow. She’d crack open her journal under the shadows. No one saw. Not even Lev.

Some nights, the pages filled fast—small, messy sketches of what she saw but didn’t speak of. A twisted tree with half its bark stripped. The curve of Ember’s ear. A rusted signpost barely clinging to a name. Other nights, the page stayed blank. Just smudges where her hand hovered and trembled, trying to find words she didn’t have.

She never showed them. They weren’t for remembering. They were for surviving.

Lev remained a constant—quiet, watchful, never pushing. He never asked why she didn’t talk. Never filled the silences. He was always there, just behind or just ahead, like he understood that being near was enough.

One morning, she slipped.

Tired legs. A loose stirrup. She fell halfway trying to mount Ember, knee hitting dirt, breath catching sharp. Before she could brace herself, Lev’s hand caught her elbow—quick, practiced, firm.

She froze.

He let go immediately, said nothing. Just turned back to his saddle like it hadn’t happened.

She didn’t thank him.

He didn’t expect her to.

___

They passed an old gas station one afternoon, its sign twisted by wind and time, the building half-swallowed by ivy and dust. Something about it made Ellie pull the reins.

She dismounted without a word and stepped inside, boots crunching over glass and gravel. The air was stale, thick with the smell of mildew and dead insects. Dust floated through a shaft of broken light, spinning like ash.

Behind the cracked counter, on the peeling wall, something caught her eye.

A child’s drawing. Crayon on sun-bleached paper, the edges curled and flaking.

A dog, maybe. Or a cat. Or both. Big ears, stick legs, a crooked smile drawn too wide. Below it, in shaky, uneven handwriting:
“To Daddy. Love you.”

Ellie stared.

Not for a second.

For minutes.

Her eyes traced every crude line. Every loop of color. Every jagged letter. Something in her chest pulled tight—sharper than hunger. Older than grief.

When she finally stepped back out into the light, her breath was shallow.

Lev stood by the door, hands tucked under his arms, his posture still and easy.

He didn’t ask what she’d seen.

Didn’t ask what she was feeling.

And Ellie didn’t offer.

She just mounted Ember again.

And they kept riding.

___

That night, Ellie sat apart from the fire again, knees drawn up, journal balanced against her thigh.

She tried to sketch JJ’s face from memory. Just his eyes.

But every time she looked down at the page, they came out wrong.

Too big. Too shadowed. Too knowing.

She erased and redrew, then again. Every version looked older than he was. Like the world had already gotten to him. Like she wasn’t remembering him, but fearing who he might become if she stayed gone too long.

Eventually, she tore the page out.

Crushed it in her hand until the paper softened and lost shape. She didn’t burn it—that would make it real. Instead, she shoved it under her blanket, buried deep, where it couldn’t stare back at her with those not-JJ eyes.

She lay down with her back to the others, the firelight flickering through her lashes like a memory trying to break through.

___

The next morning came too fast.

She saddled Ember in silence, her movements slower than usual, fingers clumsy with cold or fatigue or both.

One of the Fireflies—Cameron, maybe, the one who kept calling people bro—lingered a bit too close. His voice cut through the quiet like a stick snapping underfoot.

“You always this quiet?” he asked, half teasing, as he tightened a strap on his horse. “Or just not a morning person?”

Ellie stared at him, blank and sharp all at once.

“You always this nosy?” she said, flatly.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t mean. But it landed like a door closing in his face.

Cameron let out an awkward chuckle and stepped back, hands raised. “Alright. Message received.”

Lev, nearby, looked up from adjusting his saddle. He didn’t say anything—he rarely did—but his gaze lingered on Ellie for a beat longer than usual.

There was something in it. Not pity. Not judgment. Just... presence.

Ellie turned away before she could start reading into it.

She rode at the back again, her hood pulled up, the wind biting at her cheeks. The others' voices carried ahead of her—half-heard jokes, map talk, someone humming under their breath—but it all came to her muffled, like sound through water.

The road stretched on endlessly, a ribbon of dust and silence unraveling toward the horizon.

And Ellie didn’t know anymore if she was following it—

—or if it was dragging her behind it, piece by piece.

___

Utah’s landscape had grown jagged—more vertical, more brutal.

Steep cliffs pressed in on both sides of the narrow road, their faces carved by wind and time. The air was colder here, sharper. It sliced through the canyon like a blade, tugging at Ellie’s hood and making Ember’s breath rise in heavy, ghostlike plumes.

Her fingers curled tighter around the reins. The cold bit through her gloves, and the silence that followed them felt unnatural—like the world was holding its breath.

They took a detour off the fractured highway, weaving into the skeleton of an old mining town wedged between the hills. The place looked abandoned for decades—buildings leaning like drunk men, roofs caved in, walls split open like ribs. Rot and rust clung to every surface.

No birds. No insects. Not even the buzz of flies.

Just the sound of the wind threading through the ruins, whispering through broken window frames and twisted metal.

It felt wrong.

Ellie’s skin prickled beneath her jacket.

Lev slowed his horse until they were side by side. His voice, when it came, was low and alert. “We shouldn’t stay long.”

She didn’t answer at first—just nodded, her eyes sweeping the collapsed buildings, the long-dead storefronts, the shadows slipping between timber and stone.

Something about this place felt… watched.

Watched and forgotten at the same time.

Lev’s horse shifted restlessly. Ember let out a soft snort, ears flicking.

Ellie adjusted the strap of her rifle without looking away from the dark space beneath a fallen roof. “Yeah,” she murmured. “I know.”

They moved forward slowly, the sound of hooves against gravel echoing too loud, like they didn’t belong here—like nothing alive did anymore.

They dismounted and split up to scavenge, boots echoing over cracked stone and forgotten dirt. The air smelled of mold, rust, and time long buried.

Ellie slipped into what had once been a general store. The door hung crooked, its hinges moaning low as it swung. Inside, shelves had collapsed under years of rot—glass jars shattered across the floor, rusted cans scattered like shrapnel.

Her boots crunched softly as she moved through the debris. She found a half-roll of gauze, a cracked but usable multi-tool, and stuffed them into her bag without ceremony.

Then—
A click.

Then another. Sharp. Wet.

Then the growl.

Ellie froze, blood icing in her veins. She turned just as the stalker burst from the back hallway, shrieking. Its face was half fungal bloom, half nightmare, ribs like broken slats of wood, jutting under mottled skin.

She raised her pistol—fired once.

Twice.

Another tore from behind a counter—then a third.

She didn’t hesitate. Couldn’t. Her heart slammed against her ribs as she ducked, rolled beneath a collapsing shelf. Wood and metal scraped her shoulder. A shadow loomed.

Too close.

She lunged. Her blade found the infected’s throat—wet crunch, thick spray—then twist, pull, weight slamming into her as it dropped dead.

Blood soaked her sleeve. It wasn’t hers.

Someone called her name. Muffled. Far away.

She staggered to her feet, vision swimming, pistol raised but arms shaking. Her breath came in sharp bursts. Gunfire cracked from outside. Another stalker shrieked—cut short mid-howl by a shotgun blast.

Then—

Lev.

He appeared through the haze and dust, bow drawn, calm as stone. His eyes didn’t flicker. He aimed past Ellie, over her shoulder.

Released.

The arrow whistled—thock—straight through the skull of the last stalker lunging behind her. It dropped mid-leap. Dead before it hit the floor.

And then… silence.

Only the sound of her breath—ragged, uneven, too loud in the aftermath.

Ellie stood in the middle of the ruined store, knife still in her hand. Blood dripped from the tip, slow and steady. It wasn’t over.

It never was.

The Fireflies regrouped outside. Someone was swearing. Someone was hit. She walked out on legs that didn’t feel like hers, wiped the blade on her jeans, and said nothing.

___

That night, they camped just beyond the ruins.

Ellie didn’t sit near the fire.

She found a half-crushed stone wall, low and crumbling, and settled behind it with her back pressed to cold stone. Her hands hadn’t stopped trembling.

She stared at her palms.

The blood was gone, but the memory wasn’t.

She could still feel the way the stalker’s throat gave beneath her knife—the resistance, then the give, then the weight collapsing like wet sand.

Lev appeared, silent.

He didn’t say anything at first—just knelt beside her, holding out a battered tin of water and half a protein bar.

Ellie took them without looking up.

“I didn’t freeze,” she said, voice hoarse.

“No,” Lev said. “You didn’t.”

She chewed slowly, every bite like ash. The fire cracked somewhere behind them, distant and warm. She didn’t want it.

“I thought I’d feel better,” she muttered.

Lev sat, arms around his knees. “Why would you?”

Ellie didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Her fingers brushed the edge of her boot, slid her switchblade back into its sheath.

She kept her eyes on the trees. On the dark.

She didn’t cry.

She didn’t speak again.

But it took a long, long time for sleep to come.

And when it did—

She dreamed of blood.

Of hands that wouldn't come clean.

Of a child’s crayon drawing nailed to a gas station wall, smiling like it had never seen the world rot.

___

By the time they crossed into Nevada, the land had forgotten how to breathe.

Dust stretched in every direction, endless and flat, broken only by the skeletal remains of telephone poles and road signs sun-bleached beyond reading. The sky was pale, washed out, the kind of white that made your eyes water if you looked too long.

The sun hung high and merciless. No warmth—just weight.

The horizon shimmered with heat, a wavering mirage that seemed to promise something—a tree, a figure, a place to stop—but always disappeared the closer they got.

Ellie kept her bandana over her face to block the dust, but the heat still crawled through the threads, soaking into her skin. Her flannel clung to her like wet paper. Her thighs and knees throbbed from the saddle’s pressure, muscles knotted from days without relief.

Ember’s breaths were heavier now—steady, but worn. Every rest stop, she slid from the saddle slowly, legs shaking, and ran her hand along his neck. She whispered to him—not words, not really. Just soft sounds, touch and breath. It was the only thank-you she could offer anyone out here.

The silence deepened as they moved farther from the mountains, farther from trees, farther from anything that had once sheltered life.

Out here, silence wasn’t peace.

It was a vacuum.

And in that vacuum, the past screamed louder.

They passed the remains of an overpass—split clean through, like a snapped bone. A rusted minivan lay tilted at the break’s edge, its back wheels dangling in midair. The tail end caught on a tangle of rebar, holding it back from the fall like something had changed its mind at the last second.

Ellie stared too long.

In her mind, she saw it.

A woman—long dark hair, pale skin, flannel clinging to her arms. Climbing out the passenger door with a baby curled to her chest. Shielding his head with one hand. Looking over her shoulder.

Dina.

JJ.

Just a trick of light. Just the heat.

Ellie blinked hard. Looked away.

She didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to.

The desert was already echoing everything she tried to silence.

___

By now, the gas stations had become a rhythm.
Half-sunken into the earth, windows blown out, signs rusted to ghost letters. They marked their path west like forgotten mileposts—places where people once stopped for snacks and fuel, now emptied into silence and dust.

Later that day, they came across another one—half-swallowed by sand, the roof caved in, its sign bleached bone-white and leaning sideways like it had tried to escape the wind and failed.

Inside, the shadows were deep and still. The air held a coolness that felt wrong—too untouched, too preserved.

Ellie wandered in alone, her flashlight sweeping across aisles of ancient candy wrappers, fossilized jerky, dust-drenched shelves. The silence felt heavier in places like this, as if something might echo even if nothing moved.

Then her beam landed near the register.

A child’s backpack. Purple. Unicorn stickers curling at the corners, their shimmer long faded.

She knelt down slowly, fingers brushing the fabric. The zipper stuck at first. She tugged.

Inside:
A blue Game Boy, cracked screen, no batteries.
A juice box, deflated and fossilized.
A stuffed rabbit—white, or it had been once—one ear missing, the other chewed soft with age.

Ellie stared at it.

She didn’t breathe for a moment.

Something in her chest fluttered too fast, too shallow. Her fingers twitched over the rabbit’s face, then recoiled like she’d touched something burning.

Her vision didn’t blur with tears, not exactly—it was more like static. A quiet short-circuit. Her brain picking fight-or-flight and deciding instead to freeze.

For a second, she could almost hear a child’s laugh. Or maybe it was JJ. Maybe it wasn’t.

Then—

“Ellie.”

Her head jerked up, muscles tight.

Lev stood near the doorway, still, not moving closer. His eyes calm, steady.

“You okay?”

She nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just—old memories.”

Lev didn’t ask more. Just waited. Gave her time. When she finally stood, she tucked the rabbit into her pack without thinking, and they walked back into the sunlight without another word.

___

That evening, the wind rose hard and fast. Dust storms rolled like giants across the flatlands, turning the world into a smear of burnt orange and noise. The group huddled behind a broken stone wall, scarves pulled over their mouths, eyes squinting against the grit.

Ellie crouched beside Lev, shielding her face with her arm. The wind howled.

Lev tapped her shoulder and pointed through the swirling air toward a low, worn formation of rock in the distance.

“Looks like a whale, doesn’t it?”

She followed his line of sight, squinting.
The tail arched upward. The body swept low like it had surfaced from the desert floor. It did look like a whale.

A ghost swimming through sand.

“I used to climb the hills near the lab on Catalina,” Lev said, voice muffled behind his scarf. “You can hear the ocean hum through the dry palms when it’s windy.”

Ellie didn’t look at him. “Sounds fake.”

Lev shrugged. “It’s not.”

___

That night, Ellie didn’t draw.

She sat apart again, but not to write—just to hold something.

The rabbit sat in her lap, limp and quiet in her palms.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t talk.

But before they broke camp at first light, she rose in the dark and walked a few paces beyond the others. Found a dying bush. The ground there was soft, the roots pulling back like they didn’t want to hold anything else.

She dug with her fingers.

Laid the rabbit down like it mattered.

Then buried it gently—like a memory.

Not hers.

Not exactly.

But one she couldn’t carry anymore.

___

The edge of Las Vegas rose from the desert like a mirage of metal and ruin.

Shattered hotels stood like teeth against the horizon, half-eaten by time. Old billboards peeled under the sun—ghosts selling promises no one believed in anymore. The group skirted the outskirts, staying well clear of the city's hollow bones. Collapsed casinos. Highways torn by fire and time. No one even suggested going in.

Not worth the risk.

Ellie kept to the rear as always, but her eyes lingered on Lev more than usual now.

Watched how he rode. How he moved.

He kept his arrows angled just so—tight against the quiver for speed. His eyes were always moving. Quiet. Tuned to the world in a way the others weren’t. He reminded her of something Joel once told her: "The ones who survive don’t make noise about it."

Lev didn’t just survive. He moved like survival.

Later, when Cameron and another Firefly argued about the route—rail tunnels versus swinging wide through the fractured suburbs—Ellie didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. She knew the road was too open, too exposed. But she didn’t think anyone had been paying attention to the way she kept scanning the cliffs.

Then Lev said, “She’s right.”
He nodded toward Ellie without looking at her. “This road’s too exposed.”

Ellie blinked. She hadn’t realized he’d been watching her. Listening. Tracking her decisions like they meant something.

No one questioned it after that.

They went around.

___

That night, they made camp in the lee of a collapsed freeway sign. The fire burned low, crackling quietly in the dark, casting long shadows on the road beneath their boots.

Ellie didn’t sit as far from the flames this time.

She didn’t speak. But she didn’t brace herself against their laughter, either. Didn’t feel like every word spoken was something she had to shield herself from.

When someone said her name in passing—just part of a story, a chuckle, a nod—she didn’t flinch.

After dinner, Lev walked over and held out a canteen. His expression was unreadable, but not guarded.

Ellie took it, nodded once.

“Thanks,” she said.

Not much. But it was the first thing she’d said to anyone besides Lev in days.

He didn’t say you’re welcome.

He just sat back down, watching the stars.

___

They left the last signs of Nevada behind with the rising sun, crossing into a stretch of California that looked scorched to its bones. The earth cracked open beneath them like it had tried to tear itself apart and gave up halfway through. Jagged veins of heat shimmered off the road, warping the distance like it couldn’t decide what was real.

The air was dry enough to cut. Dust drifted in all directions—too fine to block out the sun, too sharp not to sting.

They rode through what had once been a refugee camp.

Fencing rusted to red wire. Plastic tarps tangled in the brittle arms of dead brush. Cots overturned, their legs bent like snapped limbs. A scatter of shoes, children’s toys half-buried in sand, cans bleached and empty.

No bodies.

But the silence didn’t feel peaceful.

Just abandoned. Forgotten.

Like everyone here had been told to wait for help that never came.

Ellie rode in silence. Her throat was dry, her face damp with sweat. Her fingers tapped lightly against the reins, not keeping rhythm—just needing something to touch.

She started counting the tarps.

One.

Two.

Three.

By eleven, she lost track. Or maybe she stopped on purpose.

The wind caught a piece of blue fabric and made it flap suddenly—like a hand waving.

Ellie didn’t flinch.

She just kept riding.

___

That night, they made camp in the hollow bones of an old highway rest stop.

The roof was long gone, torn away by wind or time, and vines crept up the cracked support columns like they were trying to reclaim what little structure was left. The sky above was clear—stars visible through holes in the ceiling, like punctures in a canvas.

The fire was small, just enough to push back the dark. Its light flickered across broken tiles and sleeping forms.

Lev sat nearby, cross-legged, sharpening an arrow with quiet, steady motions. Steel on stone, rhythmic and calm.

Ellie shifted closer.

Not too close—but close enough.

Close enough that she didn’t have to raise her voice.

“Santa Catalina,” she said. “What’s it like?”

Lev didn’t look up.

“Green,” he answered. “Quiet. We’ve rebuilt some parts of it. There’s farmland now. Wind power. We collect rainwater. Ethan runs a lab in one of the old visitor centers.”

Ellie’s brow furrowed. “Lab.”

The word felt wrong in her mouth. Too sterile. Too close to something she’d never outrun.

“He’s not like the others,” Lev said, still sharpening. “The ones from before.”

Ellie nodded, slow and thoughtful. “You trust him.”

Lev paused then, just long enough to make the next words heavier. When he looked up, his eyes were steady. Clear.

“I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t.”

The fire cracked softly. Someone stirred in a bedroll behind them. The silence stretched—not uncomfortable, but full. Breathing.

Ellie leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, staring into the embers.

“Do you miss Abby?” she asked, voice low.

The question hung there a moment, delicate as ash.

Lev didn’t flinch.

“Yeah,” he said. “But she told me this wasn’t her path.”

Ellie didn’t answer.

She just nodded once, barely, and watched the flame pull itself apart.

Later, as the fire dwindled and the chill set in, one of the Fireflies started talking—quietly, not for attention. A story about a sister lost near Reno. A memory that still hadn’t settled. Ellie didn’t say a word. But she listened.

And when the story ended, she glanced up. Met their eyes. Just for a second.

Then looked away again.

That night, she lay beneath the open sky, watching the moon crawl across the broken tiles like it was trying to find a way in. She didn’t reach for her journal. Didn’t draw.

But her fingers curled into the edge of her blanket like they meant to hold something—someone.

She never said it out loud.

But the soft, even rhythm of Lev’s breath just a few feet away...

It helped her sleep.

___

The green came back slowly.

At first just hints—pale shoots of grass between cracked stones, a stubborn line of pines hugging the base of distant hills like they’d refused to die. Then the air shifted—cooler, heavier. Damp with promise.

The desert had finally let them go.

They followed a narrow trail carved into the hills, winding through forest that crept back around them in cautious limbs. Rain came without warning. Light at first, then steadier. No thunder. No lightning. Just the soft hush of the world exhaling.

Ellie didn’t pull her hood up.

She let the water soak through her flannel, drip past her collar, track cold fingers down her spine. She didn’t mind. It made her feel like she was in her body again.

They took shelter in a half-collapsed ranger station beneath leaning redwoods. The place smelled like wet bark, rust, and old mildew. A shredded map still clung to the wall, warped beyond use. One corner still tried to show something—a faded line toward a lookout that probably didn’t exist anymore.

Lev winced as he stepped through the doorway.

His ankle, twisted on a rocky slope earlier that morning, was swelling—badly. Ellie had noticed his limp getting worse.

She said nothing at first.

Just dropped her bag, pulled a compression wrap from the side pouch, and crouched in front of him.

“Sit.”

Lev blinked, caught off guard by her tone. But he obeyed, lowering himself slowly to the edge of a broken bench.

She took his foot in her hands, unzipped the boot halfway, peeled it off. Her movements were brisk, clinical—but careful. No sharp edges. Just focus.

“You should elevate it tonight,” she muttered, securing the last strap.

“Thanks,” Lev said, softer.

Ellie didn’t look up. “You’d do the same.”

___

Later, she sat by the window.

Rain streamed down the fractured glass in thin rivers. Outside, the forest blurred into soft greys and greens. In her lap, her journal lay open. The graphite moved slow under her fingers.

She didn’t draw the trees.

She drew a silhouette. Small arms lifted toward the sky, curls like soft commas above the forehead. JJ.

She shaded the hair last—delicate, looping strokes. Then closed the journal.

Folded the page back behind another, hiding it like it was something sacred. Or something too fragile to look at again.

Lev joined her at the window, settling quietly beside her. His arm brushed hers as he sat. He didn’t say anything.

For a while, neither of them did.

Then Ellie asked, “Why did you come?”

Lev didn’t pretend not to know what she meant.

“You mean why me, not Abby?”

She nodded.

He exhaled through his nose, eyes on the rain. “She said… it had to be me. That if it was her, you’d never come.”

Ellie didn’t speak. Her fingers curled around the closed spine of her journal.

Lev looked down at his hands. “I didn’t come to fix anything,” he said. “I came because I remember what it’s like. To only have your anger left. To feel like if you let it go, there’ll be nothing underneath.”

Ellie stared out into the forest.

The rain had softened to mist.

She thought of Joel’s bloody boots echoing down a Salt Lake hallway. Of Abby’s face on the beach. Of Dina’s hand leaving hers without a word. Of a guitar string snapping under her fingers.

“Still angry?” she asked.

Lev shrugged, his voice quieter. “Sometimes. But it doesn’t hold me the way it used to.”

Ellie nodded. Her breath came slower now. “No,” she said. “Me neither.”

They sat there as the forest darkened, the hush of rain stretching out between them.

When the others called them to eat, Ellie didn’t move at first.

She didn’t write that night. But when Lev limped past her on his way to bed, she reached out—just once—and touched his shoulder.

Not to stop him.

Just to let him know she saw him.

And that it mattered.

___

They smelled the ocean before they saw it.

The wind shifted—cooler, sharp with salt and something older. Something rotting. Gulls cried high overhead as the landscape leveled out, giving way to weedy grass and crumbling stretches of coastal highway. Palm trees leaned like drunks against sun-bleached ruins. Ellie squinted into the horizon until she saw it: the sea, endless and steel-grey beneath a sky just as tired.

They stopped at a half-swallowed port town.

The marina was mostly intact, its wooden planks slick with seaweed, dotted with the skeletal remains of small boats. The Fireflies moved with purpose—checking moorings, securing the path to the vessel that sat waiting at the end of the dock. Its hull was faded and scarred, the name worn down to suggestion.

Ellie didn’t move.

She stood near the edge of the concrete lot, Ember’s reins slack in her hand. The ocean scent clawed its way down her throat and dragged her back—Santa Barbara. Blood in the surf. A heartbeat in her ears as bones shattered beneath her grip. A version of herself that had never stopped screaming.

Lev stepped up beside her.

He didn’t speak right away.

Then: “You don’t have to decide anything yet.”

“I already did,” Ellie murmured.

Lev nodded, staring out at the boat. “Still feels like a second decision, doesn’t it?”

She didn’t answer.

A Firefly approached them from behind, voice quiet but firm. “Boat leaves at dawn. Get some rest. You’ll want it.”

Ellie nodded but didn’t follow the others. She led Ember to a patch of grass breaking through the pavement, tied him gently, and sat cross-legged in the dirt beside him. The sky turned navy, then black, the moon a smear behind thick clouds. Down the coast, waves slapped rhythmically against something hollow.

She listened. Tried to imagine what it would feel like to step onto that boat. To see Santa Catalina. To see him.

She pulled her journal from her pack. The last sketch of JJ stared up at her from the fold. She didn’t look at it. Just closed the journal quietly, like closing a door.

Lev joined her. Sat beside her in silence. Neither of them reached for the firelight behind them.

When night had settled deep and still, Ellie said, “If I don’t come back… I want someone to tell him I tried.”

Lev’s reply came without hesitation. “I will.”

They didn’t say anything else.

The boat rocked gently in the harbor, a shadow breathing in the dark.

The salt air didn’t sting anymore.

It just lingered—like something watching.

Like something waiting to answer.

--- End of Act 1 ---

Chapter Text

Act 2 - A Quiet Place to Begin

The wind changed sometime during the second night.

It carried the scent of salt and rust, that sharp bite of ocean air that cut through leather, fabric, and memory. Ellie stood at the edge of the boat’s lower deck, her fingers curled loosely around Ember’s reins, eyes fixed on the horizon that still hadn’t changed in hours. The sky and sea blurred into the same iron-gray palette. Gulls circled high overhead—an omen, or maybe just scavengers. She couldn't tell the difference anymore.

Ember stood quietly beside her, sturdy and still, the only warm thing left from Jackson. His mane lifted gently in the wind, and his breath came slow and calm, like he knew this wasn’t the end of the road—just another place they’d have to start pretending to belong.

Ellie reached up and stroked the strong line of his neck. “Don’t let them touch you,” she whispered. “You’re all I’ve got left.”

She’d packed everything on him—her gear, weapons, spare clothes, a bit of jerky wrapped in waxed paper, a crumpled photo of JJ she hadn’t dared look at since leaving. One of Dina’s scarves was rolled inside her saddlebag, not for use, just for the scent. Ember carried it all like he always had, like he understood.

The others were quiet. Cameron and Mateo stood toward the bow, trading quiet glances with the kind of tension that didn't need words. They were checking landmarks now, counting the birds, watching how the light bent off the fogbanks.

Lev stood nearby, silent, his hand resting against the railing as the island finally began to breach the horizon—sharp cliffs, dead towers, and the outline of wind turbines turning slow and silent in the breeze.

He stepped up beside her, close but not pressing. “We’ll be docking soon,” he said, eyes on the land. His voice didn’t shake, but she could feel the shift in it. The weight.

Ellie didn’t look at him. “That it?”

Lev nodded. “Santa Catalina. Dock’s a little north of the base. We ride the rest of the way.”

Ember blew air through his nostrils and pawed the deck softly. Ellie’s hand slid down to his shoulder, grounding herself. She kept her voice low. “I’m keeping him.”

Lev turned toward her. “No one’s gonna try to take him.”

“They better not.” She pressed her forehead to Ember’s shoulder for a second, eyes closed. “He’s the last living thing from Jackson I trust.”

She didn’t say Dina. Didn’t say JJ. Those were not hers anymore—not like this horse who’d carried her through it all. Through snow and ash, blood and silence.

“You think they’ll be weird about it?” she asked suddenly. “Me being here.”

Lev thought for a second. “Some might. But most? They’ll be relieved. Ethan especially.”

Ellie’s brow tightened at that name. “Right,” she muttered. “The doc.”

Lev glanced at her. “He didn’t just want you here for the cure.”

Ellie turned her head slowly, eyes narrowing. “Then what?”

Lev hesitated, then gave a helpless shrug. “I don’t know. He just… talks about you like he already knows you. Like it matters.”

Ellie’s throat tightened. “That’s fucked.”

“He’s not like the others,” Lev said. “He’s… kind.”

Ellie gave a dry, bitter huff. “That what we call it now? Kind? Asking someone to come halfway across the world ‘cause they’ve got something in their blood you want?”

Lev didn’t answer at first. He shifted his weight, looking out at the horizon where the island had grown sharper—closer. The waves broke louder now, against distant rocks.

“You didn’t have to come,” he said quietly. “But you did.”

She didn’t respond. Not because he was wrong—but because he was right.

She had come.

Because of the photo.

Because of the name.

Because something had cracked open in her when Lev handed her that Polaroid with Anna’s tired smile frozen in time and the familiar shape of her own eyes staring back at her from a face she’d never met.

“Fuck,” Ellie muttered under her breath, turning away, hand tightening on Ember’s bridle.

Lev kept watching the sea. “He’ll be happy you’re here. Even if you’re not.”

“I’m not,” she said.

But her voice betrayed her.

Because part of her was. A terrible, aching part she hadn’t even let herself name.

The boat hit a shift in the waves and rocked. Ellie reached automatically for Ember’s bridle, calming him. He didn’t flinch.

A low call came from the crew above—Cameron’s voice, sharp over the wind: “We’ve got visual on the dock. Five minutes!”

Ellie straightened. She stared out at the place they were about to call “home.” It didn’t feel like home. It didn’t feel like anything.

Just land.

She wasn’t ready.

She gripped Ember’s reins tighter and whispered, more to herself than to Lev, “Don’t let them see how bad I’m shaking.”

Lev didn’t laugh. He just nodded.

And the boat kept moving.

___

The ramp slammed down with a groan and a hiss, metal scraping against barnacled concrete. The boat finally stilled, tied into place with thick ropes wrapped around sun-bleached mooring posts. The air hit different here—warmer, brined, pulsing with the call of gulls and the distant thrum of generators somewhere further inland.

Before anyone disembarked, Cameron stepped forward, raising one hand toward the deck above. “Clear to offload!” he shouted, his voice firm, practiced. “Let the horses move first!”

The Fireflies on board obeyed in quiet efficiency, no bickering, no wasted motion. One of them, a quiet guy they all called Reid, began unlatching the pen gate while another hoisted packs off the cargo rails.

Ellie tugged gently at Ember’s reins and clicked her tongue low in her throat. He responded with a steady trot, hooves clanking down the ramp, his weight solid under her hand. She walked at his side, boots striking wood, then rusted metal, then crumbling cement.

As they stepped fully onto the dock, voices rose ahead of them.

“There!” someone called from the cliffside stairway. “They’re back!”

Ellie blinked against the salt-stung wind. Half a dozen people were already descending toward them—some running, others walking fast, a few visibly armed, though their hands weren’t on their weapons. The group looked like a cross between a search party and a welcome committee—worn boots, patched vests, makeshift uniforms. Scientists and soldiers, all Firefly.

One woman reached them first—a sharp-featured blonde in a dusty baseball cap, Talia, Cameron had called her earlier during a map check. She stormed straight toward him and punched his shoulder so hard his arm jerked backward.

“You took long enough,” she said, eyes flashing. Then she grinned and pulled him into a one-armed hug.

“Had to make a stop,” Cameron muttered.

Talia stepped back, eyes darting over the rest of the arrivals—then landing on Ellie.

The grin faltered.

Someone else whispered behind her: “Is that—?”

The murmurs spread fast, low and disbelieving.

Ellie didn’t speak. She kept her hand on Ember’s reins and squared her shoulders.

Cameron didn’t miss a beat. He raised his voice above the murmuring crowd.

“We need someone to go get the Doc. Tell him we brought back someone he asked for.”

A beat.

“Tell him the girl, Ellie, is here.”

It was like dropping a rock into a still pond. The ripple of silence was immediate. Someone stopped mid-step. Someone else dropped a rolled-up sleeping mat.

“She actually came?” Talia said, blinking.

Ellie didn’t flinch. But the words landed sharp and stupid in her gut. Brought back. Like she was freight. Like she was cargo.

And the thing that convinced her to come?

Not a cause. Not a person.

Just a photograph.

A picture of a woman she didn’t remember. A mother she never got to know.

That’s what moved her. That’s what dragged her here, across coastlines and grief and time.

Not because she believed in Ethan. Or a cure. Or a second chance.

But because Lev held out a Polaroid and said, “He knew your mom.”

And she’d broken.

She hated how small that made her feel now, standing here like some ghost of a past someone else preserved better than she ever could.

No one asked her why she came.

No one even looked at her long enough to wonder.

The photo had done all the work.

Lev stepped up beside Ellie now, his arms crossed over his chest. There was something steady in his stance. Almost proud.

“She came,” he said.

Cameron gestured toward one of the younger Fireflies. “Go. Find Ethan. Now.”

The runner bolted.

___

A small knot of Fireflies formed now, talking in low voices. Some smiled, nodding as if a rumor had finally become real. Others frowned, unsure what this meant. Ellie could feel them watching her—curious, hesitant, grateful, confused. No hostility. But no warmth either. Not yet.

She could live with that.

“What about Abby?” Lev asked suddenly.

Talia turned toward him. “Training, I think. East fields. Probably sparring with Nolan.”

Lev’s jaw tightened slightly. “She know we’re back?”

“Not yet.”

He nodded once and said nothing else.

Ellie didn’t speak. Didn’t even look up. But her jaw set, just slightly. That flicker of breath that never made it to her chest.

Abby hadn’t come.

Not even to check.

Not even to see if Lev made it back alive.

It shouldn’t sting—but it did.

Because it meant Abby really was doing it—turning the page. Putting Ellie and everything they burned through behind her.

And Ellie couldn’t.

She was standing here, still smelling salt on her skin, still feeling the weight of that knife in her pocket, the scar tissue between her fingers. Abby had been able to walk away.

Ellie had followed.

Now here she was—on a cliffside island she didn’t want to be on, surrounded by people who knew her name but not her story, dragging a horse and a history she couldn’t shake.

And Abby?

Training. Laughing, maybe. Learning to breathe like it never happened.

The resentment rose sharp and bitter, more complicated than anything she could name. It wasn’t just anger. It was envy. It was failure.

Ellie blinked and looked toward the stable path.

She wasn’t ready to be near her.

She wasn’t ready to be forgotten, either.

Cameron moved back toward the horses, giving orders about feed, stables, gear.

Ellie stayed where she was, still holding Ember’s reins, the sea wind catching strands of her hair and throwing them across her face.

One by one, the others moved inland. The ramp was already being raised again behind them. The engine stilled. The water quieted.

There was no going back.

Ellie stood still for a long moment, her hand curled around Ember’s reins like it was the only thing tethering her to the ground. Around her, boots scraped the dock, orders were called, gear slung over shoulders. The Fireflies fell into motion like ants—efficient, coordinated. This was routine for them.

But not for her.

Cameron passed by, nodding toward the path leading up the slope. “Stables are half a klick up,” he said. “Someone’ll meet us there.”

Ellie’s grip didn’t loosen. “I’ll take him.”

Cameron paused, glancing over his shoulder. “We’ve got people for that.”

“I said I’ll take him.”

Not a request. Just a statement that dared someone to argue.

He gave her a long look, then nodded once and didn’t push it. “You know the way?”

Ellie jerked her chin toward the incline, already spotted the rough trail between two collapsed concrete walls. “I’ll find it.”

Lev stepped beside her, as if ready to walk with her.

She cut him off with a glance. “I’ll catch up.”

Lev didn’t argue. Just pressed his lips together and nodded. He knew that look.

Ember nudged her shoulder gently with his muzzle. Ellie took a breath and started walking, leading him up the cracked path. The old asphalt had been overtaken by roots and wild grass, a patchwork of earth and ruin. As she climbed, the voices behind her faded—just the sound of Ember’s hooves against stone and her own breath in her ears.

The world got quieter the further they moved from the dock.

They passed rusted fencing, a crumbling overlook, a collapsed kiosk once used for island tours. Palm trees leaned overhead like crooked sentries, and the air grew warmer under their shade. She kept her pace slow, watching Ember’s footing, taking in every bend of the trail, every jutting tree or weather-worn sign. She needed to remember this. If things went bad… if she had to leave fast… she needed to know where to find him.

After about ten minutes of steady climbing, the trail opened into a small clearing.

The stable was makeshift but solid—old lumber reinforced with metal panels and tarp roofing. A few fenced paddocks stretched out nearby, half-overgrown, but enough to let the horses roam. A windmill creaked lazily in the distance. There was no one around yet—no handlers, no Fireflies. Just her, Ember, and the buzz of island wind brushing over the dry grass.

“Looks like you’ve got the place to yourself,” Ellie murmured, pulling him to a stop. She reached for her canteen and splashed a bit of water into the trough, then removed his saddlebag with a grunt. Her muscles ached from the ride and the nerves, but her hands moved automatically—unbuckling, brushing sweat from his neck, adjusting his bit.

She took her time. Let herself fall into the routine.

“I know you don’t like strangers,” she whispered as she smoothed his coat. “I don’t either.”

Ember blinked slowly, already shifting his weight like he was ready to rest.

She fed him a piece of dried apple from her pocket, watched his jaw work through the chew.

The silence here was different. Not like Jackson’s quiet, full of expectation and memory. This silence felt… temporary. Like the calm before a storm.

Ellie dropped the saddlebag beside the stall wall, then leaned against the wooden beam, arms crossed.

She didn’t call out. Didn’t go looking.

She just waited.

Someone would come.

And until they did, this—brushing down her horse in a strange stable at the edge of an unknown future—this was something she understood.

___

The stable felt abandoned, but not unfriendly. The kind of stillness that let you drop your shoulders and forget the ache behind your eyes. The kind that reminded you of childhood treehouses, or dusty barns with warm light spilling through the slats.

Ellie gave Ember a few more brush strokes, even after his coat no longer needed it. She wasn’t ready to stop touching something familiar. He was lying down now, finally—tucked into one corner of the stall, his legs folded beneath him, breath rising and falling with the slow rhythm of trust.

She watched him for a while. Let the quiet settle in.

Then she lowered herself down beside him.

The floor was rough, flecked with straw and bits of broken hay, but it felt good to sit. To let her back lean against something. Her boots splayed out in front of her, laces still crusted with sea salt and dirt. She leaned into Ember’s side, just enough to feel the warmth through her jacket.

He didn’t move. Just sighed, deep and slow, the sound vibrating through her shoulder.

Ellie blinked at the stall wall in front of her for a long time. Just breathed.

Then she reached into the saddlebag and pulled out her old journal.

The cover was soft now, corners bent. A little damp from the sea air, the spine barely holding. Inside, the pages were filled with her handwriting—tight and slanted, sketches of dead trees and knife handles, of faces she couldn’t remember drawing. Names crossed out. Notes on fungi. A song lyric half-scribbled and then scratched through like she couldn’t stand the sound of it anymore.

She flipped to a blank page.

The pen trembled slightly in her grip.

September something, 2042. Still can’t keep track of days.

Made it to the island. Santa Catalina.
The boat didn’t sink.
Ember didn’t spook.
Lev didn’t die.

She paused.

Then:

Still not sure what the fuck I’m doing here.

Her hand hovered over the page. She could write about the horses. About the smell of the sea. About Cameron’s quiet stare when he announced her name to the others like it meant something. About Lev’s silence when she told him to go ahead.

But she didn’t.

She just drew.

The page filled slowly with soft pencil lines—Ember’s ears, the slope of his eyes, the way his shoulder curved where she now leaned her weight. She didn’t sketch his legs. Didn’t want to picture them broken, or running, or gone. She just needed to remember him like this. Breathing. Still.

By the time she was done, her hand ached. Her neck too. But the tension in her chest had eased—just enough to notice how tired she really was.

She let the pencil slip from her fingers. Her head tilted. Her cheek brushed against Ember’s flank, and his warmth seeped into her skin like a lullaby she didn’t want to admit was working.

She didn’t mean to close her eyes.

Didn’t mean to let herself drift.

But the silence, the smell of the hay, and the rhythm of Ember’s breathing lulled her under like a tide.

And for the first time since leaving Jackson, Ellie slept. Not in a bed. Not in a tent. Not in a nightmare.

Just beside her horse.

Safe, for now.

___

It had been over an hour since the dock had cleared.

The wind had turned colder, sweeping harder through the cliffs, rattling the loose siding on the upper walkways and tossing vines across the windows like restless fingers. The base was shifting into something tense and brittle. Conversations dropped. Footsteps moved faster. No one said it out loud, but they all knew—she was gone.

And Ethan was on his way.

They’d checked everything—the common hall, the storage rooms, the old infirmary, the mess, even the west tower ruins. A few of the Fireflies were already retracing trails with flashlights, sweeping the perimeter in tighter and tighter circles.

Still nothing.

Cameron’s boots hit the catwalks hard as he stalked toward the south scaffolding. He found Talia tightening a fence bolt with one hand, her other braced against the frame like she was trying to hold the whole damn compound together.

“She’s gone,” he said, sharp. “Nobody’s seen her in over an hour.”

Talia didn’t move at first.

“Lev’s already out checking the ridge line,” Cameron added, voice lower now. “Someone told Ethan she was here. We’re gonna look like idiots if she’s just... disappeared.”

Talia finally looked at him. “You checked the dorms?”

“Twice. She never made it there.”

Cameron didn’t say her name. He didn’t have to.

Talia’s gaze cut past him, scanning the horizon above the cliff trail. Her jaw tightened. Her mind rewound it all—Ellie on the dock, silent and unreadable. One hand on that horse. No eye contact. No gear handed off. No trust offered.

“She didn’t leave him,” Talia said.

“What?”

“Her horse. She was leading him up the ridge. Wouldn’t let anyone else touch him.”

Cameron followed her stare. The trail bent out of view behind a wall of sun-bleached scrub and half-collapsed fencing.

“You think she’s—”

“She’s at the stables,” Talia snapped, already moving. “Where else would she feel safer than next to the only thing she still trusts?”

She didn’t wait for backup.

Didn’t explain.

She was already halfway across the compound, picking up speed.

They could search every room on this island.

She knew exactly where Ellie would be.

___

The stables sat quiet at the edge of the slope, half-shrouded by the brush and trees that had slowly crept back over the years. Talia rounded the last bend, boots thudding against the cracked stone path, her breath still sharp from the climb.

No guards. No Fireflies. No Ellie in sight.

But then she heard it—low and steady.

Breathing.

She stepped into the doorway, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light filtering through the torn tarp roof. The smell of hay, old wood, and horse sweat wrapped around her like memory.

And there—tucked in the corner of the main stall—was Ember.

He lay curled in the straw, legs tucked beneath his body, eyes half-closed, ears flicking at the sound of her arrival.

Pressed into his side, fast asleep, was Ellie.

Talia stopped moving. One hand gripped the edge of the stall frame.

Ellie hadn’t just crashed there—she’d curled into the horse, her head resting against the thick muscle of his shoulder, one hand still tangled in the reins. Her bags were piled around them in a protective half-circle, like she’d meant to keep guard but didn’t make it past the thought.

A journal lay open beside her, pencil still clutched between two fingers.

Her face was slack with exhaustion, lips parted slightly, forehead creased even in sleep. Dirt smudged one cheek, and there was a faint scratch along her jaw, probably from brush or salt air. She looked young. Too young.

Talia exhaled quietly through her nose and stepped closer, boots muffled by the hay.

She crouched, careful not to startle the horse, and reached out gently.

“Ellie.”

No response.

Talia softened her tone, touched the edge of her jacket sleeve with two fingers.

“Hey. Wake up.”

Ellie flinched and sucked in a breath like she was coming out of a nightmare, hand jerking reflexively toward the knife strapped to her thigh—half-asleep muscle memory.

Talia pulled back instantly. “Easy. It’s me. You’re alright.”

Ellie blinked up at her, unfocused. Her voice cracked. “What—?”

“You disappeared on us,” Talia said softly. “Been over an hour. Ethan’s already halfway here.”

Ellie blinked again, wiped at her face with the back of her hand. “I wasn’t... I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” Talia said, already rising. “You’re not in trouble. Just figured I’d find you where he was.” She nodded toward Ember, who blinked back at her as if in approval.

Ellie sat up fully now, brushing straw from her arms. Her journal snapped shut and got stuffed back into one of the bags, fast, like it was a secret someone had almost seen.

Talia didn’t mention it.

Instead, she moved to grab one of the heavier packs. “Let me help. We’ve got a cabin for you. Private. You can crash properly there.”

Ellie hesitated. “I’ll come back for him later.”

“You should,” Talia said, hoisting the pack over one shoulder. “He doesn’t look like he’d forgive you if you didn’t.”

Ellie smirked, just barely. It didn’t reach her eyes, but it was real.

She stood slowly, slinging a smaller bag across her chest, glancing once more at Ember before stepping out of the stall.

Talia held the stable door open for her. “Let’s get you set before the Doc shows up and starts looking in all the wrong places.”

Ellie followed her into the wind.

Not ready.

But not running, either.

___

They walked in silence at first.

The wind had calmed some, but the air still carried a coastal bite. Ellie pulled her jacket tighter around her ribs, her boots dragging a little in the dirt path as they made their way down from the stables. She kept her head low, eyes skimming the ground, ignoring the buildings passing to her left and right. The base felt like it was holding its breath—half watching her, half pretending not to.

Talia walked beside her, carrying the heavier pack like it weighed nothing. She wasn’t rushing. She wasn’t trying to make conversation. She just walked.

But then, as they turned the corner past the old rainwater cistern, she finally spoke.

“Name’s Talia, by the way.”

Ellie gave her a sidelong glance. Her voice was dry. “I figured.”

Talia smirked. “Right. Guess it’s hard to miss the ones who won’t shut up.”

Ellie didn’t return the smile, but her shoulders eased a fraction. She didn’t reply, and Talia didn’t push.

A moment later, they passed a young Firefly—barely twenty—hauling a crate of salvaged wire toward the solar shed. Talia stopped him with a short whistle.

“Hey. You seen Cameron?”

The guy paused, turned. “I think he’s with that patrol coming in from the ridge.”

“Find him,” Talia said, shifting the bag on her shoulder. “Tell him Ellie’s with me. I’m taking her to her cabin.”

The guy looked at Ellie. Just for a second. Not hostile. Not reverent. Just curious.

Then he nodded and jogged off down the gravel path.

They continued.

The path narrowed, winding between what used to be marine dorms—now repurposed into labs and quarters. Most windows had been patched, some with metal, others with plastic sheeting. A few doors had chalk scribbles or radio codes etched into their frames. Ellie didn’t ask what they meant.

Talia’s voice came again, calm but not casual.

“Place we’re giving you—it’s a little off from the main cluster. Not far. Just quiet.”

Ellie nodded once, eyes ahead.

“We figured you might need space. Not... noise. Not people.”

“That obvious?” Ellie asked, voice low.

Talia gave her a look. “You slept in a stable with your horse.”

Ellie gave a dry snort, barely audible. “Didn’t mean to.”

“You needed it anyway.”

They kept walking. Past another set of sheds. Past a quiet group of Fireflies carrying water barrels. No one stopped them. No one said a word.

Just the crunch of boots. The ocean wind curling through the ruins.

And for once, no one asked Ellie anything.

The path veered off to the left, away from the larger cluster of cabins and foot traffic. Here, the grass grew higher between cracked flagstones. One of the nearby lampposts had a strip of blue cloth tied to it, fluttering in the breeze like a forgotten marker. There were no guards. No eyes. Just one squat building tucked beneath the arms of two leaning trees.

Talia stopped in front of the door, shifting Ellie’s pack higher on her shoulder. “This one’s yours.”

She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a worn key attached to a simple leather strap. No tags. No engraving.

She held it out.

Ellie hesitated, then took it.

Talia opened the door for her anyway—habit, maybe. Or instinct. She stepped inside first, did a quick scan out of reflex, then moved aside to let Ellie enter behind her.

The space was small but clean. A single bed against the wall, real sheets folded neatly. A desk near the shuttered window. A stove that looked like it hadn’t been used in weeks. A folded towel, a jug of drinking water, a worn chair that creaked just looking at it.

Quiet.

Unclaimed.

Ellie stepped inside, her boots clicking softly against the stone floor. She didn’t say anything.

Talia set the pack down just inside the door, then turned back to her.

“Nobody else has the key. You lock it, it stays locked.”

Ellie gave a short nod, eyes still on the bed.

Talia lingered for a second. Then added, “You don’t have to join anything. Not tonight. Not tomorrow.”

That caught Ellie’s attention.

Talia met her eyes. Calm. Measured.

“You need something—anything—you come to me. Doesn’t matter what time it is.”

Ellie swallowed. Nodded again, slower this time.

Talia reached for the door, then paused.

“Glad you made it here, Ellie.”

She didn’t wait for a reply.

The door clicked shut behind her with a soft finality.

And Ellie stood alone.

Finally still.

___

Ellie waited until the sound of footsteps on the stone faded completely. Only then did she move.

She turned and locked the door again.

Twice.

Then she tested the knob.

Twisted it. Rattled it. Pushed against the doorframe to feel if it gave.

It didn’t.

Still, her hand hovered there another moment longer, her thumb resting on the bolt like she could will it stronger.

Then she moved to the window.

The wooden shutters had been pulled half-closed from the outside. She opened them just a crack, enough to let in the late afternoon light and a sliver of wind. Her eyes scanned the yard.

There was no one there. No patrols. No one leaning against a wall pretending not to watch her. No shadow lurking beneath the lamppost.

Still, she didn’t trust it.

She closed the shutters again. Left a gap just wide enough to see through if she crouched low.

Then she moved to the bed.

She dropped her jacket first, then unzipped her side bag, pulling out everything she needed. Her Beretta first—smooth and black, scratched near the barrel, but solid. She dropped the magazine, checked the rounds—full—slapped it back in, and cocked it once with a sharp, practiced motion.

The sound echoed in the quiet room. She didn’t flinch.

The rifle came next. Unwrapped from the makeshift sling she’d traveled with, still oiled from her last cleaning back in Jackson. She sat cross-legged on the bed and inspected the bolt, the scope, the magazine. Her hands moved automatically—muscle memory layered over muscle memory. Click. Check. Lock.

She placed it under the bed, angled within reach of her right arm.

The Beretta went under the pillow. Safety on.

She ran her hand over the sheets—cotton, thin, but not scratchy. Someone had tried to make this place feel like home. That made it worse.

She stood again and walked a slow circle of the room. Checked the bathroom—small, with a bucket-flush toilet and a cracked mirror. No windows. Nowhere to hide. She opened the cabinet. Empty.

She returned to her bag and pulled out her switchblade. Thumbed the hinge.

Click.

The blade caught the light for half a second before she folded it back and slipped it into her jacket pocket, now draped over the back of the chair.

Finally, she turned toward the desk. She eyed the drawer—closed, but unlocked. She pulled it open slowly.

Inside, a single candle. A box of matches. A folded piece of paper.

She didn’t touch the paper.

Not yet.

Instead, she sat in the chair, back to the wall, eyes on the door.

It wasn’t Lev she didn’t trust—not exactly.

It was the world that made him.

He might be gentle now, might have guided her hand at archery, might’ve stayed quiet when she needed silence—but he was still the kid who’d once stood over Tommy, his bow in his hand, ready to let his arrow go on him a second time. Still the one who belonged to Abby.

Still someone who might carry someone else’s orders without knowing it.

So she watched the door.

And waited.

Just in case.

She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out the switchblade. Sat back into the chair with a slow exhale and turned it over in her hand. The steel was cold despite the warmth of the room. Familiar weight. Familiar click.

Click.

The blade snapped open, catching the last of the sunlight sliding in through the cracked shutters.

She stared at it.

Not the edge.

The handle.

The scarred notches along the side. The worn white plastic. The spot near the hinge where the finish had scraped off from too many falls, too many hands, too much blood.

Her thumb ghosted over it.

She remembered losing it.

Not when she dropped it.

No—when she had to crawl for it.

Santa Barbara.

The beach.

The surf roaring like it wanted to drag them all under. Salt in her throat. Sand in her mouth. Her fingers screaming from where they’d been torn open. Blood everywhere—hers, Abby’s, it didn’t matter.

She couldn’t feel her hand. Could barely move it. And her knife—this knife—was just out of reach, glinting in the sand.

She remembered the panic.

Not because Abby was winning. Not because Lev was watching.

But because that blade had been hers since Boston. Since Riley.

It had been the first thing she ever learned to protect herself with. The last thing she had before the world ended the first time. Her first gift from her mother.

She crawled.

She bled.

She found it.

She picked it up with her broken hand like her whole life depended on it—because it did.

And then she didn’t use it.

She let Abby go.

She let them all go.

Ellie blinked, and she was back in the room.

The blade still open in her hand. Her two missing fingers twitching against nothing. Phantom pain pulsing under the skin.

Her eyes burned suddenly, the tears fast and silent. No build-up. No gasp. Just wet.

Because that knife had been next to her when Joel died. In her pack when she left Dina. In her hand when she spared the one person she thought she’d never forgive.

She hadn’t cried on the beach.

She hadn’t cried on the ride back.

But now—now, with the door locked and her horse asleep and her weapons cleaned and stacked beside her bed—

She let one fall.

Just one.

She wiped it quickly.

Closed the blade.

Click.

Slid it back into her jacket.

And leaned her head back against the wall, eyes shut, chest tight.

The silence pressed in again.

But it didn’t win.

Not yet.

She let herself sit like that for a while. Breathing. Not moving.

But eventually—her eyes drifted toward the desk.

Toward the drawer.

Toward the folded piece of paper she’d left untouched.

She didn’t want to read it.

Which is exactly why she did.

Ellie pushed herself up from the chair, legs stiff. Crossed the room in a few slow steps. Opened the drawer.

The candle. The matches.

And the paper—still folded clean, still waiting.

She picked it up with two fingers, like it might bite her.

Sat back down.

Unfolded it.

The handwriting was tight. Measured. No signature. Just a few lines.

“If this room isn’t good enough, we’ll find you another.
You don’t owe anyone anything yet.
—E”

That was it.

Ellie stared at the page, lips parted, breath shallow.

There was no plea. No welcome. No explanation.

Just… room.

Space.

Choice.

She hated how much that shook her.

How badly she wanted to not feel anything about it.

She folded the note back up. Slid it under the candle where no one would touch it.

Then leaned back in the chair, eyes on the door again.

Still not safe.

Still not ready.

But maybe—maybe—not entirely alone.

Chapter Text

The first thing Ellie felt was warmth.

Not just the heat of blankets or the way breath pools in the hollow between two bodies—but the kind of warmth that lived in safety. The kind she remembered from childhood, even if she wasn’t sure she’d ever really known it. The kind that wraps itself around you before your brain has a chance to question if it’s earned. The kind you’d bleed to keep.

She didn’t move. Didn’t open her eyes. Her body had no reason to be tense, no reason to listen for footsteps, for groans in the floorboards, for breathing that didn’t belong. It was all here.

It was all hers.

The mattress dipped gently in front of her. The air smelled like Dina—lavender and wool, the faint echo of soap she could never quite name. Ellie’s arm was draped across her waist, fingers resting against the hem of her shirt, skin warm beneath cotton. Their legs were a mess beneath the blanket—tangled like roots, pressed close from a night neither of them had wanted to end.

And behind that—the smallest sound. A sleepy shift. The soft, clumsy slap of bare feet hitting floorboards. A voice, barely a whisper.

“Mama…”

JJ.

A smile formed before Ellie even realized it. It curled against the pillow, slow and silent, blooming from somewhere too deep to fake. Her chest ached, but not in the bad way. In the way that made her wonder if she’d finally made it back. If maybe, after everything—after Salt Lake, after Santa Barbara, after all the silence—she was allowed to have this.

She didn’t open her eyes. She didn’t need to. Her world was right here. Steady. Breathing. Real.

And just beneath the pillow, her fingers found what they always reached for: the switchblade.

The metal was cool, familiar. Her thumb ran over its spine without thought. It had been there in Boston. In Colorado. At the farm. Always under her hand. Always waiting. But here, it was just habit. Not necessity. Not defense.

A ritual now. A comfort.

She sighed, body loose against the sheets, breath syncing with the slow inhale and exhale in front of her. Dina’s body rose with it—just slightly—and Ellie let her fingers drift forward, brushing her waist. Gentle. Not to wake her. Just to say, I’m here.

Because she was.

Right here.

With them.

And maybe this time, she wouldn’t fuck it up.

“Mm,” Ellie murmured, the sound melting into the pillow.

Her voice was barely audible, just a thread of breath more than speech. Still half-asleep, still hovering in that sweet, fragile space where reality hadn’t yet caught up with the softness of the dream.

She shifted slightly, the mattress dipping with her weight, and let her fingers press a little more firmly into Dina’s waist—tracing the outline of her hip through the shirt she always stole for bed. The one with the hole near the seam that JJ liked to poke his fingers through. The one that still smelled faintly of the fireplace, of cinnamon tea, of home.

“Hey,” she whispered, mouth brushing warm skin. “Still here?”

Dina didn’t answer. Of course she didn’t. She was asleep.

But that was fine. Ellie didn’t need the words. She just needed the shape of her. The warmth.

She let her lips hover near the back of Dina’s neck, then pressed a kiss there. A slow one. Soft. The kind she hadn’t dared give in daylight since she came back to Jackson.

The kind that meant thank you.
The kind that meant don’t go.
The kind that meant I still love you, even if everything between them had frayed at the seams.

“I had a dream,” Ellie whispered, voice smaller now. Childlike, almost. “You were gone. JJ was gone. I was alone again. But…”

She smiled faintly against Dina’s skin.

“You weren’t. You’re here.”

The air was still.

Her fingers slid up, brushing just under the edge of Dina’s shirt now, cold fingertips against warm skin. She wanted to stay here all morning. Wanted to bury her face between Dina’s shoulder blades and hide from the world. Hide from memories. From Fireflies. From herself.

She let her eyes drift shut again, just for a second.

Just long enough to memorize the rhythm of Dina’s breath. The way it rose…
and fell.

Rose.

…

Fell.

And then didn’t.

Ellie’s brow knit slowly. Her hand stilled.

She opened her eyes.

The shirt beneath her palm wasn’t warm anymore.
The blanket beside her wasn’t dipped.
The air—dead still.

Her fingers pressed down—harder now. No curve of a waist. No breath.

Just sheet.

Just cotton.

Just nothing.

Something inside Ellie unraveled.
Not all at once. Not like glass shattering—more like fabric pulling loose at the seams. A slow, inevitable giving way.

Her eyes opened fully.

The ceiling above her wasn’t theirs.

It was wood. Dark. Warped. A water stain shaped like a continent spreading near the far corner. Not cracked plaster. Not the subtle ring from JJ’s old rubber ball bouncing too hard one afternoon. This ceiling didn’t know her. Didn’t hold any of her memories.

The light was wrong, too—thin and damp and cold, filtered through curtains she hadn’t chosen, diffused like it came from behind a veil. A misted grayness that pressed in from the sea. It didn’t feel like morning. It felt like mourning.

Her chest began to tighten, sharp and breathless, before the memory even arrived.

This wasn’t Jackson.

Not the house she came back to.
Not the warmth she just swore was real.
Not her bed.

Not her home.

No Dina.
No JJ.

Just… a cabin.
A bed that smelled like nothing.
Santa Catalina.

And Ellie.

The sound that broke in her throat wasn’t a sob. Not even close. It was too small for that. Too dry. Too swallowed. It was a breath that didn’t know whether to come or go—something between a sigh and a silent collapse. A sound that no one would hear. A sound she knew better than her own name.

She curled in on herself fast, dragging her knees to her chest like she could press the dream back into her skin. Like she could hold onto it a second longer, if only she made herself smaller. If only she pressed hard enough. Her fists came up to her face, knuckles digging into her eyes, into her skull, like she could squeeze out whatever was left of the illusion before it turned on her.

She had dreamed it.

All of it.

Or maybe—God, maybe—she had just wanted it so badly that her mind forged the memory from scraps. The scent of JJ’s hair, warm and wild. The exact weight of Dina’s arm on hers, draped across her stomach. The heat of their bodies, curved together like they belonged in the same bed again, like time and space hadn’t broken them down to strangers.

She could still feel it.

Dina’s shirt beneath her fingers.
The soft murmur of JJ’s morning voice.
That kiss against the back of her neck.

Gone.

Like a heartbeat that never was.

The weight returned quick—like a stone dropped into her lungs. Thick. Sharp. Ugly.

Her chest throbbed with it, full of pressure and nothing else. Her mouth turned bitter, coppery. Like blood. Like failure. And her right hand—the one holding her switchblade beneath her pillow—clenched reflexively.

The phantom pain in her left fingers burned.

She flexed them without meaning to, those missing parts. Tried to wrap them around something. Anything.

A pillow.
A hand.
A child.

But there was nothing there. Not anymore.

Just her.

And all the pieces of a family she’d already lost twice.
And now, maybe, for good.

The real weight returned quickly.

Not with a crash—but like a noose tightening. A slow, thick pressure pressing into her chest, until breathing felt like swallowing rocks. Her ribs ached. Her mouth was dry and metallic, like she’d been chewing on guilt all night in her sleep and forgotten to spit it out.

And her hand—the one that still had all its fingers—twitched open, then closed. Again. Again. Searching for something that wasn’t there.

She could feel it.

The shape of a child’s hand tucked into hers.
The press of a wedding band that had never existed.
The warmth of skin that hadn’t forgiven her.

Her fingers curled tighter.
Phantom touch. Phantom family.
She had already lost them twice.
Once by walking away.
Once by coming back too late.

She sat up slowly, like her bones remembered things her mind didn’t want to. Like grief had woven itself into her joints. The blanket slid off her shoulders and puddled around her waist, the cold air slapping at the sweat on her neck.

Her breath hitched—but didn’t break. She didn’t cry.
Not because she was strong. Not anymore.

Just because her body didn’t know how to sob without flinching anymore.

She had spent so long keeping the pain inside, folding it down, pressing it tight, like a bloodstained shirt shoved into the back of a drawer. Too many nights alone with only silence to scream into. Too many mornings with no one to ask her if she was okay. Too many answers she didn’t know how to give.

But her face—it told the truth. Her jaw locked. Her eyes burned dry. Her mouth stayed closed because if it opened, the sound that came out wouldn’t be words.

Her feet touched the floor.

Bare skin against cold wood.

That dull, hollow knock of soles hitting boards rang louder than it should’ve.

She stared at her knees. At the curve of her scarred shin, the dirt she hadn’t cleaned from her ankle. She hated the stillness. Hated how her hands shook when she wasn’t using them.

So she moved.

She dressed like she was loading a weapon.
Every piece of clothing was armor.

The shirt—gray, soft from overuse—pulled over her head with a practiced motion.
The jacket—her old flannel, the one with the missing button—slid on without hesitation.
Jeans next. Worn at the knees. Still too loose since she dropped weight.
Socks. Then shoes. Her long lasting Converses. Laced tight enough to bite. She needed to feel something.

She stood slowly. Steadying.

Her switchblade slipped into her pocket like breath returning.
Her Beretta clicked into its holster on her thigh.
Her rain jacket came last—heavier than usual. It felt like wrapping herself in silence.

She slung her backpack over one shoulder.

The weight didn’t shift.

That knot in her chest—twisted and taut—remained.

She moved toward the door, hand on the knob for a second too long. Her head bowed slightly, like the room might ask her to stay. Like the ghost of the dream might whisper one last plea.

But she didn’t stop.

She pushed it open.

The wind hit her full in the face.

Sharp. Cold. Alive.

Ellie stepped out.

Not because she was ready. Not because she was strong.

But because she had no other choice.

No Dina.
No JJ.

But she was still here.

Still breathing.

And if the world wanted to lie to her again, it’d have to try harder.

She would find her answers herself.
Even if they ruined her.
Especially if they did.

___

The door groaned open.

Not loud—but loud enough to announce her. To whatever waited outside. To whoever might be watching. The sound dragged across the frame like something dying slow. It scraped against the edges of her nerves, already worn thin.

Then the wind hit her.

Not a breeze. Not gentle.

Cold.
Wet.
Briny.

It rushed in like it had been waiting—like it recognized her.

It slid beneath her jacket collar, sharp as a blade. Curled up the back of her neck like a hand meant to shove, not soothe. It coiled down her sleeves, across her ribs, making every scar twitch like it remembered pain before she did.

It didn’t feel welcoming.

It felt like a warning.

She stepped forward anyway. Putting her hood on, letting it down just enough to hide her eyes from anyone she could met.

Not out of confidence. Not out of calm.

Because movement was safer than stillness.

Her shoes crunched down on gravel, each footfall grounding her in this place she didn’t trust. She didn’t pause. Didn’t shiver. Her body stayed locked, stiff from the dream, stiff from the cold. She reached up and tugged her hood lower, like that thin scrap of fabric could shield her from more than rain—like it might hide the storm crawling behind her eyes.

Her chin tucked down. Shoulders slightly hunched.

But her eyes…

They didn’t drop.

They swept the compound in one long, fluid motion—slow, clean, clinical. The kind of sweep she’d done in abandoned towns. In firelit tunnels. In houses where things waited in the dark. Her gaze ticked from left to right: rooftops, windows, alley gaps between buildings, faces moving in the distance.

No threat.

But her gut didn’t agree.

Her body was alert in the ways she couldn’t turn off. The way trauma hardwires itself into your spine. There wasn’t immediate danger. Not here. Not yet.

But habit wasn’t something you killed with logic.

Her fingers brushed the edge of her coat, ghosting over the shape of her switchblade like reassurance. Not drawn. Not needed. Just there. Just in case.

People were moving around the compound already—clusters of morning routines. Boots stomping through puddles. Quiet conversations. A few nods passed between strangers. A glance here. A whispered something there. Most didn’t stop to look at her.

Some did.

One woman stared too long. A man paused mid-step. Another looked away too fast, like guilt had a scent and he just caught it off her.

Ellie’s chest stayed tight. Not panicked—just… coiled.

She kept walking.

She wasn’t looking for a fight.
She wasn’t running from one either.

She was just trying to stay ahead of whatever was building inside her.

The place smelled like old wood, seaweed, diesel fuel, and something faintly medicinal. Metal scraped in the distance. Somewhere, someone was shouting orders. Somewhere else, someone was laughing. That sound—laughter—made her shoulders twitch. Like it didn’t belong here. Like she didn’t.

The air changed with every step. Familiar, but not.

Too clean.
Too civilized.
Too still.

It wasn’t Jackson.
And it sure as hell wasn’t home.

She didn’t know what it was yet.

So she kept moving.

Eyes sharp.
Jaw locked.
Heart drumming out a rhythm her mind didn’t want to hear.

The base was already awake.

Not in a chaotic, defensive kind of way—no alarms, no weapons drawn—but alive in the way a place is when it’s used to surviving. Used to function. Morning here was a rhythm. A pulse. She could feel it under her shoes, hear it in the scrape of metal and muffled conversations.

People moved between buildings in small knots, three or four at a time. Some leaned against doorframes sipping from mismatched mugs, steam curling up past their chins. Others passed supplies back and forth—ammo boxes, baskets of root vegetables, trays of boiled linens. Two were gutting fish with clean precision. One was refitting a rifle.

Ellie slowed her steps, just a little. Enough to absorb the details.

Some of them looked like soldiers—tight posture, cropped hair, patches still barely scraped off old FEDRA gear. Others wore that patched-together look she recognized from the road. Survivors. Layered in flannel, rain-stiff canvas, and whatever armor they could scavenge and make fit. There were no uniforms here, but there was a language to how they moved. Quiet discipline.

And the young ones…

They were what stuck.

Boys with soft faces and strong arms. Girls no older than fifteen cleaning knives with practiced hands. A kid with freckles and wide shoulders pushing a wheelbarrow like his life depended on it. Too clean-eyed for this. Too eager. Too far from childhood.

That unsettled her more than the guns.

Because you could train someone to shoot.
But you couldn’t un-teach them what they’d done after.

She kept walking.

They glanced at her. Some openly. Others from the corners of their eyes. One man—a dark beard and a long scar along his jaw—offered her a polite, distracted, “Morning.” No warmth. Just automatic civility. Like she was a stranger with a shadow that didn’t quite make sense.

She didn’t answer.

Just dipped her chin and kept moving.

She wasn’t looking to talk.
Wasn’t looking to be seen.

She wasn’t looking to make friends.

Not here.
Not now.

She walked like a ghost might—passing through space without touching anything. Observing without offering.

And everyone let her.

As if something in her body language told them exactly what she was.

The kind of person who doesn’t break eye contact.
The kind who keeps one hand near her pocket.
The kind who doesn’t smile first.

Ellie moved like she belonged.

Back straight. Gaze forward. Feet sure, even when her gut twisted with that low, electric current that screamed you’re not one of them. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Her body carried the routine like armor—like routine itself was the only thing holding her together. Like muscle memory could trick her brain into believing this place wouldn’t chew her up.

The ground was soft from a recent rain, gravel slick beneath the tread of her shoes. Each step left a ghost of moisture in her socks. Her legs ached—not from distance, but from tension. From the effort of not looking like she was watching everything. Not looking like she was about to bolt.

By the time she reached the first line of squat, low-roofed buildings, her breath had evened, but her pulse hadn’t. These looked like storage units. Bunkers. Utility sheds. Maybe kitchens, maybe dorms. No signs. Just doors and eyes and the quiet scrape of tools against metal somewhere in the distance.

She passed a training yard—wide, packed dirt, ringed with old tires and rotting hay bales. It was empty now. But the grooves in the earth told her it wouldn’t stay that way for long. She caught the faint outline of footprints from boots far heavier than hers.

Whoever trained here meant business.

She didn’t stop.

Her stomach growled, the kind of deep, twisted ache that came from more than hunger. She ignored it. Food could wait. Answers could wait. Her nerves couldn’t.

She needed something real.

Something hers.

Her first stop wasn’t the kitchen. Wasn’t the command tent. Wasn’t the medic quarters.

It was the stables.

Or what she hoped were the stables.

She hadn’t asked. Hadn’t wanted to. Asking meant needing. Needing meant trusting. And she wasn’t there yet. Maybe never would be.

But Ember—he was the only thing she trusted to not shift beneath her feet.

She caught a whiff of something familiar on the breeze. Wet hay. Manure. Salt sweat and horseskin. Her pace quickened, head turning as she traced the scent like a bloodhound. She veered off the gravel path and ducked under a low tarp strung between two rusted beams, the fabric heavy with damp and mildew.

Behind the shed, there it was.

A wide paddock, fenced in with mismatched planks and wire. The ground was churned up from hooves. A few horses stood lazily beneath the washed-out sky—tails swishing, ribs rising and falling in quiet, stubborn rhythm. Most were light-coated, older. Docile.

But then—

Her heart hitched.

There he was.

Ember.

Dark as night. Still tethered. Still whole.

The second she saw him, something in her cracked open—quietly, like glass under pressure.

Her throat burned, but she didn’t make a sound.

For a moment, her face slipped. The mask she’d pulled on since the cabin, since the dream —peeled back just an inch.

She picked up her pace, almost tripping on a rut in the dirt as she rounded the gate. Her hand reached out before she even thought about it.

She didn’t run. But she moved like she might if he’d made a sound. If he’d called to her.

Because he was still here.

And in this place full of ghosts and strangers and shifting ground, that meant everything.

“Hey, boy,” Ellie whispered, voice rough with sleep she hadn’t earned. “Still mad at me for making you cross the fucking ocean?”

Ember blinked at her. Slow. Deliberate. His head tilted slightly, one ear twitching in a way that almost looked like annoyance. Or boredom. Maybe both.

He didn’t move.

Typical.

But it made something in her chest tighten—then loosen. The way he just stood there, solid and unbothered, like he hadn’t noticed the storm of nerves ripping her up from the inside.

She reached for the gate with a hand that still trembled, fingers clumsy on the latch. It clicked open, and she slipped inside without hesitation. No one called out. No one questioned her. There was just the wet crunch of her shoes in the dirt and the low thrum of her heartbeat in her ears.

Ember didn’t flinch when she approached. He didn’t shy away or toss his head like he sometimes did with strangers. He just breathed out—deep and steady, a slow exhale from deep in his chest. Steam curled from his nostrils in the morning air.

He lowered his head just enough to meet her halfway.

And Ellie, without a word, reached out.

Her palm met the side of his face, rough hair under her fingertips, the steady warmth of his skin grounding her better than the ground ever could.

She closed her eyes.

The cold that had been burrowed in her chest since she opened her eyes in that stranger’s bed—the sharp ache that came after the dream of Dina, of JJ, of home—ebbed. Not completely. But enough for her lungs to expand.

“You’re the only one I trust here,” she murmured, her forehead touching his now. “Y’know that?”

Ember shifted slightly, a lazy swish of his tail brushing her hip like a reply. A breath left her lips, halfway between a laugh and something more fragile. She lifted her other hand and ran it gently down his neck, fingers moving slow, familiar. Like prayer.

She didn’t know how long she stood there.

Minutes, maybe. Longer.

The wind threaded through her hair, tugged her hood back. It caught the edges of her jacket and flared them open, but she didn’t pull it tight. Not here. Not with him.

Her eyes wandered up to the sky. The clouds were low and heavy, thick with salt and hush. In another life, this would’ve been a good day to skip patrol. To stay home. To cook. To teach JJ the names of clouds or carve initials into fenceposts with Dina when no one was watching.

But that life was gone.

Or maybe not gone—just locked behind a door she hadn’t figured out how to knock on again.

Ellie pressed her cheek against Ember’s shoulder, letting his smell fill her lungs. That warm, earthy scent—hay and old leather and animal sweat—cut through the static in her mind better than anything else. It was steady. Honest.

Real.

He had carried her across coasts. Waited through firefights. Watched her fall asleep in the saddle yesterday, too tired to keep her head up.

A huff left her lips.

“I don’t deserve you,” she said softly.

He flicked his ears, noncommittal.

She stayed there longer than she meant to. Because no one rushed her. Because it felt safe. Because for a few precious moments, the weight in her spine quieted.

But eventually, the ache in her stomach twisted again—deeper now. Sharp.

Her body was hungry. Her head already slipping toward the edge of another spiral.

She pulled back. Slowly. One last pat on his neck. One last touch to the bridge of his nose.

“Alright,” she muttered, voice low and tight. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead one last time against his side. “Time to find some food.”

She stepped away before she let herself fall apart again.

She left the stables the same way she’d arrived—silent, guarded, like slipping out of a room she was never meant to be in. The wind had picked up, threading through the trees that circled the compound, tugging at the loose ends of her jacket. She adjusted her hood, tucking it lower over her brow until shadows covered her eyes. Not hiding—disappearing. There was a difference.

She walked the narrow back paths between buildings, choosing gravel over the main walkway, the noise of her shoes swallowed by the wind and damp earth. Her shoulders stayed squared, her head down—but not in submission. Just enough to make people think twice about bothering her.

She wasn’t scared.

She just didn’t want to be seen.

Not yet.

Not with her face still marked by the dream. Not with her thoughts still clawing through her chest like something caged. She didn’t want their curiosity. She didn’t want their recognition. She didn’t want to be that girl again.

The immune one.
The miracle.
The myth.
The failure.

The one they all used to whisper about like she was already a ghost.

She kept her focus forward.

Her body moved on instinct. One foot. Then the other. She was just chasing the smell of something hot—cooked oats, maybe. Bread. Coffee, if they were lucky here. Her stomach coiled tight, the ache making her dizzy.

She wasn’t hungry for food.
She was hungry for something to matter.

The corridor she followed was narrow and dim, with concrete floors and walls patched with metal siding. A long shadow stretched down it like a warning, but she ignored it. She kept moving until she saw a door—slightly ajar, the hinges rusted, warm light spilling through the crack.

Probably the kitchen.
Or a storage hall.
Something simple. Something safe.

She reached for the handle. Paused only once—to breathe.

Then she stepped through.

The sound hit her before her eyes adjusted.
Voices.
Laughter.
Chairs scraping.
Trays clinking.
The dull thud of someone dropping a ladle.

Her hood blocked her peripheral vision, and she didn’t bother looking up fully. Just kept walking—eyes half-lowered, mind already halfway through her exit plan.

And then—

She slammed into something solid.

Hard.

The jolt knocked her a step back. Her shoulder caught against a ribcage that didn’t give. Her hand reflexively reached for her pocket, muscles flinching into a defensive coil before her brain caught up.

She looked up.

Blonde.
Broad shoulders.
Chest heaving slightly from the collision.
A jaw she used to hate.
Eyes she used to fear.
A face she hadn’t seen this close in two years.

Ellie’s breath caught in her throat—sharp, immediate, like she'd swallowed glass.

Abby’s lips parted, but no words came out. Her eyes locked with Ellie’s, wide and unreadable. A thousand things passed between them in that half-second—none of them spoken. Regret. Rage. Disgust. Confusion. Fear.

And under it all:
Recognition.

___

They didn’t move.

Not right away.

The air between them tightened, like something had stepped in and sucked the oxygen out of the room. The warmth from the food hall vanished. The noise faded. Everything distant, muted. Background static in the wake of one thing, one presence, one impossible reality:

Her.

Abby stood still, towering and silent, her chest barely rising beneath the dark layers of her shirt. Her arms had shifted just enough from the impact, hands now slightly raised—either to catch Ellie, to defend, or maybe out of pure instinct, as if even her body didn’t know what to do first. Her face had stiffened, unreadable, like she was trying to crush whatever surged through her too quickly to name.

Ellie stared back up at her.

And froze.

Not from fear. Not exactly.

It was something rawer than that. Something like revulsion and recognition sewn together by a thread of memory too tangled to cut.

Every inch of her screamed to do something—reach, shove, speak, spit, react.
But she couldn’t.
Her fingers twitched near her pocket. Her teeth clenched. Her body didn’t trust itself not to start something that couldn’t be stopped.

Abby’s expression didn’t soften. It didn’t sharpen either.

It stayed caught in some impossible space. Her jaw was locked. Her brows drawn. Her eyes—those same fucking tired, dark eyes—were locked onto Ellie like she was seeing a ghost, or maybe looking in a mirror.

Two years ago, they had stared at each other like this.

In a theater, bathed in blood and panic and silence.
On a beach, with everything dead around them.

And now?

Here.

A fucking dining hall.

Talia’s voice had come from somewhere behind, but neither of them moved to acknowledge her. Neither blinked. Neither looked away.

Ellie didn’t breathe.

Her stomach twisted. Her mouth dried instantly, copper and salt crowding her tongue. Her throat burned with the ghost of words she didn’t know how to say. Why the fuck are you here? What did you tell them? Do you still think I deserved it?

But nothing left her mouth.

The memories came in like a flood—flashbulb moments too fast to process. The crack of Joel’s skull against a floor. Jesse falling. Dina screaming. Lev’s unconscious body under her blade. Abby’s scream. That broken “No.”

And then… the weight of her own mercy. The one she’d never been sure she truly gave.

The space between them buzzed.

She wondered if Abby would speak first.
She wondered if she’d punch her.
She wondered—just for a second—if Abby wanted to punch her.

That thought made her breath catch for real.

And then another voice. Calm. Young. Familiar in the worst and strangest ways.

“Ellie.”

Lev.

He was beside Abby now, stepping slightly forward, his hands lowered in peace, his body turned not toward Abby but toward her.

Ellie didn’t look at him.

Her eyes stayed locked on the woman who once held her life in her hands.
The woman who killed Joel.
The woman who left her alive.

The woman whose breath she could still hear, even now, slow and controlled and entirely unreadable.

She wanted to say something.

Anything.

But the silence between them wasn’t just silence.

It was the weight of everything they never finished.

___

Then, from beside them, a voice like a knife wrapped in sugar—

“Well, shit,” Talia drawled, the smirk in her voice slipping into the silence like it had been waiting for its cue. “Should’ve charged admission for this reunion.”

The words hit like a slap—not painful, but jarring. A reminder that they weren’t alone. That other people existed. That time hadn’t stopped, even if it felt like it had. Ellie’s heart still thundered in her chest, her breath shallow, her jaw clenched so tight it ached.

Talia stepped up beside her, hands buried deep in the oversized pockets of her dark green coat, posture loose in that lazy, almost predatory way of someone who never really let her guard down—but knew how to pretend she did. Her smile was all teeth and mischief, cocked just a little too wide, like she was feeding off the static between the two women standing in front of her.

“Abby, you’re slipping,” she said with mock offense. “You let another girl get that close and I might have to fight for you.”

It was said lightly—playful. But every syllable was sharp enough to leave a mark. Like she was testing how far she could push before the blade cut deep. Her voice didn’t shake, didn’t tremble. She wasn’t blind. She knew what this was.

Abby exhaled sharply. A scoff. A breath weaponized.

She turned away—not entirely. Just enough to break the full line of contact, to give herself that sliver of distance. Her back stayed straight, but her shoulders tensed beneath the fabric of her shirt. Her jaw locked like she was holding something back—anger, confusion, maybe words that would only make things worse.

Her eyes still flicked toward Ellie. Once. Twice.

Like she couldn’t help herself. Like something in her was still waiting for Ellie to speak first. Still caught between two burning instincts: Get out, and Get closer.

Lev, ever still, glanced between the two of them. His face unreadable, but the subtle movement of his brow, the tight pull of his mouth, said enough. He’d seen it before. The way their silences bled. The way their presence sparked like gunpowder before flame. The faintest shake of his head—not judgment, not mockery.

Resignation.

Like he already knew there was no version of this that ended clean.

Ellie still hadn’t moved.

Talia nudged her with an elbow. Casual. Pointed.

“Relax,” she murmured, voice quieter now—just enough for Ellie to feel it, not enough to invite the room in. “I was just coming to fetch you anyway. Doc’s not available today for meeting you both, figured I’d give you the tour.”

Ellie’s mouth opened, then closed. No sound came out. Her throat still burned from words she didn’t say—didn’t dare. She tore her eyes away from Abby with effort, like peeling off a bandage fused to skin.

She glanced at Talia instead.

Then past her, to the food hall, to the half-curious, half-avoiding stares of others who had watched the freeze-frame play out and pretended they hadn’t.

Her voice scraped out finally, low and tired. “Yeah. Sure.”

But her pulse was still racing.

And her whole body felt like it hadn’t stepped away from Abby at all.

Tour.

The word dug in like a splinter.

Ellie’s brows drew together, not in confusion but in quiet resistance—like her body rejected the idea before her mouth could. She didn’t look at Talia. She couldn’t. Her eyes were still pinned to Abby’s back, to the way the woman stood stiff as iron, as if holding herself together one vertebra at a time.

Her shoulders were squared, her spine a steel rod. But her hands—her hands told a different story. They had curled into fists, knuckles blanching white at her sides. Not clenched in fury. No. Ellie had seen Abby angry. This was something else. Contained. Controlled. Like she wanted to shake or scream or stay, but knew she couldn’t do any of it here.

Then, slowly, those fists unclenched. One finger at a time.

Like she was forcing herself to calm down. To be unreadable again.

Ellie’s voice came out low, a thread pulled too tight. “Didn’t think I’d be meeting him with her.”

The words barely left her lips—half-swallowed by shame, half-drenched in disbelief. As if speaking it aloud made it more real.

Talia shrugged, light as breath. “You two go way back, right?” she said, tone still syrupy with mischief. “Thought maybe a little catching up wouldn’t kill you.”

Then she looked over at Abby, tossing the bait with a smile that was just this side of cruel. “Unless you wanna give her the tour yourself, Big Girl. Might score you some points.”

Abby didn’t respond. Not with words.

She just turned her head.

Enough for her eyes to cut through the air like flint. Enough for Ellie to see the glare she sent Talia’s way. It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t even insult. It was the look of someone who had no time for games—especially not now.

Talia only smirked wider. Like she liked the game anyway.

“That’s a no, then,” she said, her voice purring into the silence.

Ellie’s jaw locked. Her molars ground together, slow and tight. She felt like her whole face might crack from how hard she was holding it in.

The moment fractured.

Not with sound—but with movement.

Abby turned without warning and walked away. Brushed past Lev. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t look back.

Her footsteps were sharp and even as she headed to the far door, the tension in her shoulders unchanging, like she was carrying the weight of the moment out with her.

Lev hesitated.

He looked at Ellie. Not long. Just a glance. A half-nod, uncertain, unreadable. Maybe sympathy. Maybe warning. Maybe just acknowledgment of the wound that had reopened between them all.

Then he followed Abby, disappearing through the door.

Gone. Just like that.

And Ellie was still standing there. Still in the doorway. Still too stunned, too wound, too full.

Her throat felt thick with something she couldn’t name—regret, rage, fear, all knotted together and burning behind her ribs. It rose into her mouth, bitter and sharp, but no words came. Just breath. Just silence.

She didn’t know what she felt.
Just that it wouldn’t fit in her chest much longer.

Talia turned to her, her voice softer now. “You eat yet?”

Ellie blinked, like she’d forgotten she had a body.

Her voice rasped out. “No.”

“You hungry?”

A beat passed before she answered, her hand unconsciously pressing into her stomach where the ache sat like a brick.

“Yeah.”

Talia studied her.

Not mockingly. Not teasing. Just… watching.

Then, without a word, she turned and stepped toward the food counter near the wall. She grabbed a small wrapped loaf of something dense—still warm, still soft. Bread. Maybe oats, maybe barley. Didn’t matter.

She handed it to Ellie.

Their fingers brushed, and Ellie’s flinched back before she could stop herself.

Talia didn’t react. She just nodded toward the door. “Eat while you walk. It’s quiet near the perimeter. Less eyes.”

Ellie hesitated.

Then took the bread.

Her hands didn’t shake—but they felt heavy. Like they remembered what it was like to hold a child’s hand and realized they never would again.

She bit into it mechanically. No taste. Just motion. Just survival.

“Good,” Talia said, already moving. “Let’s walk.”

And Ellie followed, still chewing.

Still trying not to look at the door Abby had vanished through.

Still pretending she wasn’t looking for her shadow in the corners of the room.

___

The hallway felt too narrow. Too full of things that didn’t belong to Ellie.

Voices echoed faintly behind them—the rattle of trays, laughter that now felt distant, like it belonged to people living lives she’d never get to understand. The air inside was warmer than it should’ve been. Claustrophobic. Heavy with food and sweat and unspoken things.

Talia walked ahead, her gait loose, easy—like the scene Ellie had just survived hadn’t even grazed her. She moved like someone who didn’t carry ghosts, or at least, someone who knew how to make them sit and stay. Her braid swung with each step, an unconscious rhythm, her jacket flaring behind her like a flag of defiance. She didn’t check if Ellie followed. She didn’t need to.

Ellie trailed a step behind, just far enough to avoid brushing shoulders. Her own pace was slower, tighter. Contained. Her hand drifted again to the pocket of her jacket, fingers brushing the spine of her switchblade like it was a tether.

She hadn’t opened it all morning.

But her fingers kept finding it anyway. Like if she could just grip it tight enough, she wouldn’t fall apart.

It was stupid.

It was just a door.
Just a woman.
Just a fucking moment.

But it wasn’t. Not to her. Not to her body, which hadn’t unclenched since Abby’s breath hit her skin. Since their eyes locked and Ellie forgot what year it was, what side she was on, who she was supposed to be now.

That moment had carved something open in her chest.
Something old. Something half-healed.
Something still bleeding.

And now it soaked through every word Talia spoke like blood into cotton.

“Alright,” Talia said, finally pushing the side door open with one arm, the cold biting through the warmth they’d left behind. “You’ve seen the heart of the place. Let me show you the bones.”

Outside, the wind returned. Sharper now. It cut across Ellie’s cheeks and tangled her hair at the collar. The sky was a washed-out gray, the kind that made it hard to tell if it was morning or midday. Sea salt clung to everything—the air, the fences, the roof shingles stained white at the edges.

“This is the perimeter zone,” Talia explained, motioning to a dirt trail that wrapped between rows of low buildings and the outer fencing. “Quiet side. Mostly used for solo patrols or late rotations. If you wanna vanish for a few hours, this is your route.”

Ellie said nothing. Her shoes sank slightly into the soft ground. Her hand was still in her pocket.

Talia glanced back once, noted her silence, and kept talking. “We built up from the wreck of a college satellite station. You’ll see it when we hit the west end—old antennas, a bunch of concrete that survived the bombing. Surprisingly sturdy. Survived better than half the world, really.”

The wind snapped at their jackets as they turned the corner. Ahead, a wide lot filled with gear—tarps, rain barrels, a row of makeshift solar panels soaking up what light they could. To the side, a long barrack with mismatched siding and curtains too thin to hide the silhouettes inside.

“Those are the dorms for the younger ones,” Talia said. Her voice softened, just slightly. “They pair up in threes or fours. Safety, structure.”

Ellie flinched, barely, at the name.

Ellie chewed another bite of the bread without tasting it. Her jaw ached from clenching, not from chewing. Her eyes scanned the fencing, the shadows under buildings, the shifting of people moving in the distance. Everyone here walked like they had purpose.

Like they weren’t drowning.

She envied that.

“Storage’s up ahead,” Talia said, nodding toward a squat concrete building with heavy locks and one bent camera aimed lazily at the door. “One guard on rotation. If you need something, talk to Nolan. He’s a dick about ammo, but he’ll listen if it’s important.”

Ellie nodded this time. Brief. Enough to register. Still no words.

Her brain was still spinning.

Every step echoed with what hadn’t been said.
Every gust of wind reminded her of Abby’s scent.
Every turn around a building came with the sick expectation that she’d see her again—standing there, arms crossed, eyes narrow, saying something that would break the silence.

But she didn’t.

And Talia didn’t stop.

“You’ll like the garden,” she added after a pause. “Cass started it. Full of herbs and shit no one eats unless she makes you. But it’s calm. You’ll see.”

They rounded another corner, and the sea came into view. Gray, churning, endless. The sound of it filled the spaces between Talia’s words.

Ellie stopped walking. Just for a second.

The wind caught the hem of her coat, pulling it back like it wanted her to turn around.

But she didn’t.

She clenched the switchblade in her pocket and looked at the water.

It didn’t answer her.

Nothing ever did.

“This here’s the med wing.”
Talia’s voice cut through the wind, brisk, like she was used to walking and talking and not checking if anyone was keeping up. She gestured toward a long, narrow structure with aluminum siding and a row of frosted windows, streaked by salt and age. The door was dented, slightly off-center, with a crude Firefly emblem scrawled across it in faded black paint.

“We keep it running twenty-four hours. A couple of our latest recruits are ex-medics from Salt Lake—real professionals.” She tapped the metal door like it was worth trusting. “Don’t get shot, though. Beds suck.”

Ellie didn’t laugh. Not even close.

She just looked at the door.
And thought of Salt Lake.

Of another hospital.
Of a hallway echoing with boots, of Joel with blood on his hands, of lives taken so she could keep breathing.

Her chest tightened.

Talia didn’t wait for a reaction. Didn’t slow. She just kept walking.

They crossed the open walkway that connected the compound’s eastern and southern sides. The sea wind hit harder here, whipping in sudden and violent. It lifted Ellie’s hood, stung her eyes, pulled at the ends of her hair like it wanted her attention.

She squinted into the horizon.

Gray.

So gray it almost glowed, the kind of light that felt like standing inside a bruise. It wasn’t cloudy. Not exactly. Just bleached—washed out in that coastal way where the world looks like it hasn’t decided whether to shine or break.

Talia nodded toward a stretch of flattened dirt to the left, bordered by posts and frayed rope.

“That’s the training yard,” she said. “You’ll want to check it out later. A few ex-Seraphites run drills there now. Guess that makes sense, huh?”

Ellie’s jaw twitched.

Her mouth stayed shut, but her stomach turned at the mention. Seraphites. She remembered their whistles. Their blades. Their hammers. Their scared faces, bloodied and stunned.

She didn’t respond. Didn’t need to.

Talia glanced at her from the corner of her eye but didn’t push. She was smarter than that.

They kept moving.

“Cameron and Cass have a thing for morning runs,” she added, pointing toward a side path that curved near the cliff line. “So if you’re into that kind of torture, you’ll find ’em over there.”

She smirked. “I’m more of a ‘survive and complain’ type myself.”

Still, Ellie said nothing.

Her voice felt buried too deep to dig out.

But her eyes moved.

They drifted across the landscape as they walked—over the buildings with their mismatched panels, the bundles of rope and netting stacked near storage, the twin towers standing like teeth at the east gate. She saw a greenhouse built from scavenged glass and rusted steel frames—inside, something green shimmered under plastic sheeting. Life, despite it all. Rows of blue barrels lined the walkways, catching the rain. Tubes snaked between them in tangled systems that looked half genius, half desperation.

It wasn’t Jackson.

Jackson had warmth. Familiarity.
The weight of history in every beam.
The ghost of Joel in every hallway.

But this place—it wasn’t chaos either.

It was structured. Moving.
Breathing.

Alive.

And that… unsettled her.

She didn’t know how to feel about that.
Didn’t know if she was allowed to feel anything about it at all.

Part of her wanted to scoff. To pick it apart. To see the cracks and say this won’t last. But the rest—something quieter, something she didn’t want to name—felt like maybe she was looking at something that could.

And that made her chest tighten worse than the memory of Abby’s eyes.

Because what if they were building something that worked?

What if Abby had come here and contributed to made it work?

And what did that make Ellie?

Talia slowed her pace as they approached a small cluster of long, low buildings. Their siding was mismatched—some plywood, some sheet metal, some slabs of concrete scavenged from ruins—and their windows were smeared with salt and condensation. Faint outlines of bunk beds and moving shapes were visible behind the curtains.

“Over there’s where most of the squad groups bunk,” Talia said, nodding casually toward them. “Four to a room, usually. Five if they’re stubborn.”

Her tone was light, offhanded, but Ellie could hear the structure behind the words. This wasn’t random. This wasn’t chaos. This was a system.

“You’ve got your own space for now,” she added, “but if you stay long-term, they’ll probably move you closer.”

Ellie snorted under her breath. “Not planning on staying long-term.”

Her voice came out too sharp. Too fast. Like it had been waiting just behind her teeth.

Talia let out a quiet chuckle, but it lacked its usual smugness. “Sure. You’re just here for answers.”

Ellie’s jaw tensed. She turned her head just enough to look at her fully.

“That a problem?”

Talia stopped walking.

The sudden halt made Ellie pause too. There was a brief stretch of silence—no boots scuffing, no wind, just the sound of the distant sea groaning beyond the cliffs.

Talia turned toward her and really looked at her. Not the way she had before—not with amusement, not with flirtation, not with the edge of performance she seemed to coat every interaction in like armor.

Her gaze was quiet now. Focused.

Her smirk had slipped. Her mouth set in a line that was more thoughtful than harsh.

“No,” she said, finally. The word was low, and firm. “It’s not a problem. Just…”

She exhaled through her nose, like it cost her something to explain.

“Don’t expect clean answers here. This place… we’re not running on clarity. We’re just trying to hold shit together. One day at a time.”

Ellie didn’t answer right away. Her eyes dropped to the ground, then to the buildings beyond, then to the horizon, where the world disappeared into mist. She could feel her pulse in her neck.

She didn’t want clarity.

That was the problem.

She wanted something else.

Something rougher. Something she couldn’t name but could feel—like a wound that hadn't scarred right. She wasn’t looking for peace. Not forgiveness. Not even truth.

She just needed something to make sense. Some thread to pull. Some direction to go. Something real.

But this?

This wasn’t it.

Not the tour.
Not the base.
Not the perfectly organized bunk lines or the clean water systems.
Not Talia’s smirking eyes and clever mouth.

And it definitely wasn’t the weight of Abby’s eyes, inches from hers, looking like she hadn’t moved on at all—but refusing to say a damn thing.

Ellie crossed her arms, shifting her weight like she might root herself in the dirt if she stayed still too long. The wind had picked up again, cold and briny and sharp against her cheek.

“Can we move on?” she muttered, not quite looking at her.

Talia gave a single nod. “Yeah. C’mon.”

They started walking again. The path narrowed, gravel underfoot giving way to compacted dirt, bordered by wood planks and stacked crates. They passed more buildings—some labeled, some not. Talia pointed things out with practiced ease.

“The mess hall. Workshop. Water tanks. Medical backup station. Solar grid’s down that path.”

Ellie didn’t catch half of it.

Her mind wasn’t here.

Her shoes were moving, but her brain was still back in that room. Still staring at Abby. Still choking on the words she hadn’t said. Still feeling the heat of her breath too close to forget. Still questioning if the way Abby looked at her had been hate—or grief—or something worse.

Something that might have looked like recognition.

And Ellie hated how much it made her ache.

They passed through the perimeter fence—a patchwork of old chain-link, rusted poles, and half-buried rebar—and looped back toward the line of outer cabins. The gravel beneath their shoes gave way to thinner, wind-carved dirt, the kind of ground that never quite dried, always damp from mist or memory.

The cliffs started just beyond.

Dark and jagged, ancient black stone broken apart by decades of erosion and war. They sloped steeply down to the surf, which churned and foamed like a thing alive. The sound of the waves was louder here—violent, rhythmless, a roar without pattern. The spray launched high enough to sting the air above, biting into Ellie’s cheeks and lips.

The wind had changed.

Less salt.
More sting.

It carried something else now. Something colder. Something cleaner. The scent of the open Pacific stripped of anything warm. It threaded through her jacket and wrapped around her ribs, seeping in like it meant to settle.

Talia stopped at the crest of the hill, her boots sinking slightly into the soft earth, her silhouette framed against the sky.

She turned and glanced down toward the farthest cabin—the one Ellie had been given. It looked smaller from here, like it belonged to someone else. A borrowed life on borrowed land.

“That’s the full loop,” Talia said, voice quieter now. No teasing, no sarcasm. Just plain. Measured. “You’ll get the rest as you go. People are nice enough once they’re used to you.”

She hesitated—not long, but long enough to mean something. Then added, softer still, “You need anything—gear, food, answers—you come to me. Or Cameron. Even Lev, if you can stomach the constant bow talk.”

Ellie didn’t smile.

But she nodded.

And that was something.

The first real gesture she’d made all morning that hadn’t felt like armor. No words. Just a tilt of the chin. A weight to her eyes that said heard you. Even if she didn’t know what to do with it yet.

Talia saw it. Didn’t press it.

She stepped back, brushing her palms against her coat like dusting off a job done. Then with a half-smile, she nodded toward the cliffs.

“Alright. I'm getting out of your hair now. I’ll let you know when Doc’s available.”

Ellie didn’t answer. She just watched her go—watched her braid swing side to side, watched her figure shrink with every step away. The crunch of gravel beneath her boots was rhythmic, grounding. But there were no more jokes. No glances back.

And somehow, that made it easier.

She waited until the sound of her footsteps disappeared entirely, swallowed by wind and distance.

Then Ellie turned.

___

Ellie walked to the edge of the cliff.
Felt the earth get softer.
Sat.

Not on the bench nearby. Not on the path.

In the dirt. Where it felt more honest. More hers.

She drew her knees up, the cold seeping through her jeans. The sea below snarled against the rock, the mist rising with each crash. Her hair whipped forward, strands slapping across her cheek and catching in her mouth.

She didn’t care.

She reached back and unzipped her backpack. The sound of the teeth separating felt too loud in the quiet. Her fingers found the leather journal at the bottom. Worn. Bent. Familiar.

She pulled it out. Rested it in her lap.

And stared.

The pencil was still tucked in the spine. She didn’t move to grab it.

The pages fluttered in the wind. Empty ones. Some smudged with dirt. Others warped by old water. One had a smear of something dark along the edge—blood, maybe. She didn’t remember whose.

She stared at the page. Open. Blank.

Nothing moved.

Not yet.

But soon.

Her fingers twitched.

The pencil stayed where it was.

The ocean didn’t care who she was.

It roared beneath her like it had for centuries, steady and endless and brutal. Its rage didn’t need a name. It didn’t stop to consider guilt, or loss, or what someone had done to survive. It just kept moving—tearing at the rocks below like it had a grudge to settle with the earth itself.

Ellie sat at the cliff’s edge, knees drawn tight to her chest, shoes rooted in scrub-dotted dirt like she could physically hold herself in place. Like bracing against the wind might stop the world from tilting. But it already had.

It had tilted the moment she woke up, opened her eyes and reached for someone who wasn’t there.

It had tilted again when she walked straight into Abby’s breath.

Now, she was just trying not to fall with it.

The wind didn’t ease. It pressed at her hood like a stranger’s hand, tugging, curling around her like it meant to peel her apart piece by piece. It got in behind her collar, slid down her spine, bit at her knuckles. She didn’t pull away. Let it take what it wanted. Let it numb her.

The sky above was a sheet of brushed silver, thick with low clouds and electricity. Not storming. Not yet. But close. It carried that heavy stillness—like the world was holding its breath, waiting for something to break.

Rain or confession.
She wasn’t sure which she preferred.

Below her, the sea smashed itself against the cliffside like it resented the shore. Every crash was a slap. Every echo climbed the rock and cracked into her ribs like something inside her wanted out. The salt stung her nose. The sound sank deep.

It reminded her of Salt Lake. Of Seattle. Of Santa Barbara. Of standing at the edge of something violent and not knowing if she was meant to jump or be pushed.

She had always loved cliffs.

Not because they offered escape.

Because they offered truth.

A line.
A choice.
The edge where the world stopped pretending.

She used to sit on the roof of the farmhouse like this, back when JJ was still small enough to carry against her chest, legs kicking, drool on her shirt. Back when Dina still looked at her like she wasn’t broken beyond repair. Like there was something left to build with.

Back then, the edge of a roof had been high enough.

Now, she needed more.

She hadn’t really written in her thoughts in her journal since the barn.

Since the guitar sat in her lap and she couldn’t feel what she was supposed to feel. Since she closed the book and told herself there was no point in carving feelings into paper if no one would read them. If even she didn’t believe them anymore.

Since she decided silence was safer.

But the weight of this morning hadn’t let up. Not through the tour. Not through Abby’s silence. Not even through the shallow, exhausted breaths she was pretending counted as control.

Her chest was full—tight, burning, too much. Like her ribs had started to bend inward. Like if she didn’t open the journal, something else inside her might split instead.

So she stared at it.

Still in her lap.
Still closed.
Still waiting.

She didn’t want to write.

She didn’t want to remember.

But it was the only thing that ever shut her brain up for long.

She pulled the pencil from the spine and stared at it.

She stared at the page so long her eyes blurred.

The pencil rested between her fingers like a stranger—too light, too familiar. It had always been like this. The hardest part wasn’t writing. It was starting. Letting the silence inside her crack open enough for something to bleed out.

She didn’t write a date.

She never did.

Time stopped mattering the day she realized clocks didn’t save people. Calendars didn’t stop people from dying. Birthdays passed like ghosts. Anniversaries didn’t bring anyone back.

So she just began. One line. Shaky. Slow. Almost an accusation.

She still looks like her.

Her hand trembled slightly, but not enough to stop her from continuing.

Like the girl who beat me half to death.
Like the girl I almost killed twice.
Like the girl who watched me walk away and let me.

But she also doesn’t.

She swallowed and dragged the pencil again, slower this time.

Her hair’s longer than when I saw her in Santa Barbara. Arms broader. But her eyes…

She looked at me like she’d been waiting.
Like she thought — hoped — I wouldn’t come.
Like I ruined something by just being there.

Like maybe I wasn’t supposed to survive.

And maybe she didn’t want me to.

A gust of wind tugged at the edges of the page, trying to lift it from her lap. She pinned it down with her palm, jaw clenched.

I don’t know what she feels.
I used to think I could read people. Used to think that mattered.
But with her, it’s like reading smoke.

Everything’s there and gone at the same time.

She paused. The tip of the pencil pressed harder into the paper now. Words didn’t come so easily when they started to hurt.

I hate her.
For Joel.
For Jesse.
For Dina.

But most days, I think I hate her more for surviving.
For finding something to build while all I’ve done is break.

And I hate that I looked at her and didn’t feel rage first.

I felt…
I don’t know.

I felt something move.
And that scares the shit out of me.

Her breath caught.

The sound of the ocean swallowed everything for a moment—words, wind, thought. Just the sea, screaming itself hoarse on the rocks below.

Then her pencil moved again.

I thought I came here for answers.
But seeing her again makes me think the questions are worse.

And now I don’t know if I want to stay because of her, to not let her win this time again.

Or leave before I forget why I ever wanted her dead.

She stopped.

Her fingers ached from gripping too tight.

She looked down at what she wrote—raw, uneven, a little slanted near the end where the wind had tried to steal her attention. It didn’t feel like relief. It didn’t feel like clarity.

But it felt like something.

And for now, that was enough.

She just closed the journal and held it tight against her chest, breathing in the brine and the silence.

Chapter Text

The bed wasn’t uncomfortable. But it didn’t hold her.

Ellie stared at the ceiling as the sky outside shifted from ink to iron. Her arms lay still at her sides, like they’d given up knowing what to reach for. She hadn’t closed her eyes. Not once. Her body wasn’t wired for rest anymore—just pause. And readiness.

No dreams. Not even nightmares.

The base hadn’t made room for them yet. Maybe it would.

She sat up before the first footfalls echoed outside her door. Her joints tensed from stillness, not strain. The mattress let out a low creak—like it knew better than to protest. She moved quiet. Not out of courtesy, but out of habit. She didn’t want the day to know she was awake.

No sounds outside her cabin. Good.

She dressed fast. Not rushed—routine. Jeans. The gray shirt Dina once said brought out the green in her eyes. Overshirt—flannel, missing a button near the chest. A jacket against the morning bite. Knife in her back pocket, Beretta on her thigh. Her journal slipped into the bag slung over her shoulder. Her shoes—scuffed Converses, the same ones she’d worn walking away from Jackson—still damp from yesterday’s mist, laced tight until the fabric pinched. She needed to feel something. Anything.

No mirror check. The one in the bathroom was cracked. It hadn’t held her reflection right since the second night. And if it couldn’t do that, then what was the point?

The gravel path scraped against her soles as she stepped outside. Wind curled low and damp beneath the collar of her jacket, carrying the scent of salt and diesel. She didn’t pull her hood up. Didn’t look up at the rooftops, the eyes behind windows. She just walked.

Every step was a low thud of memory.

Santa Barbara.

Salt Lake.

The farmhouse.

Dina.

She exhaled, sharp through her nose, and turned left—away from the mess hall’s main entrance, where voices already murmured. Two shapes passed just ahead—one taller, one slight, half-hidden by the slant of the fog. Lev, probably. Abby maybe beside him. Her breath caught. She changed direction instinctively, cutting across behind the greenhouse.

Not now. Not yet.

She didn’t owe them another first encounter.

The mess hall was mostly empty—two older Fireflies hunched over mugs near the corner, whispering like the walls had ears. Maybe they did. Ellie didn’t care. She kept her distance, shoulders drawn in, eyes low. Familiar rhythm: in, serve yourself, don’t talk.

She grabbed a bowl from the stack, fingers cold around the ceramic. The ladle stuck in lukewarm oats like it had given up trying to stir. She scooped a portion—too much, too little, who cared—and sat at a table near the back.

Always the back. Always the seat facing the door.

She dug in slow. Chewed without tasting. The oats were thick, pale, and bland, like someone had strained the life out of them. They stuck in her throat like damp paper. No honey. No salt. Just calories.

Every now and then, her eyes drifted to the hallway beyond the kitchen—where the infirmary was, and past that, the labs. But no footsteps came echoing. No familiar shapes appeared.

No one came through.

No one looked for her.

No one said her name.

Her spoon scraped the side of the bowl. The sound was small but sharp, too loud in a room pretending not to notice her.

She tried not to care. She’d done worse than be ignored.

But her fingers clenched tighter around the handle of the spoon. Her shoulders itched with the weight of something not said, not offered, not asked for. A whole week and still no sign of him. No word from Ethan. Just "he’s busy" and silence.

It was starting to feel familiar. That absence that looked a lot like avoidance. The same way Abby had done it in the yard. Pretending not to see her. Pretending they hadn’t almost killed each other. Pretending they were strangers.

And now here she was again. Waiting. Invisible. Unwanted, in that polite, practiced kind of way.

She scraped the last gluey smear of oats into her mouth and swallowed without breathing. Then stood. Her chair barely scraped the floor. She didn’t make a sound.

She carried her bowl to the bin like it was part of some unspoken agreement:
Don’t make a mess.
Don’t ask questions.
Don’t expect a welcome.

And she didn’t.

But that didn’t stop her hands from curling into fists once the door closed behind her.

Back outside, the wind had picked up. It tugged at her jacket sleeves, sharp and sour with salt. The kind of cold that didn’t freeze you, just crawled under your skin and stayed there.

She didn’t rush. Didn’t need to. Ember’s stall wasn’t far, and she already knew the path by heart—counted every cracked stone, every warped plank in the fencing, every place the gravel gave way to packed dirt. Her feet moved without thought. The shoes she wore barely muffled the scrape of every step. A familiar rhythm. One of the few she could still follow.

Half out of habit. Half out of desperation.

Something warm. Something that didn’t talk. Something that didn’t forget her name.

The stable greeted her like it always did. Dust and hay and old leather. The slow creak of a wooden beam settling. A faint drip from the far corner where the roof still leaked. The smell of earth and sweat and memory.

She paused just inside the doorway.

The light was different here—dimmer, soaked in gold and dust. Like time slowed down on purpose.

A soft grunt came from the back left stall. Then a shuffle. Then the quietest huff.

Ember.

His ears twitched before his head turned toward her, slow and heavy-lidded, like he knew exactly how this would go. Like he’d been waiting—not because he needed her, but because she always came.

Ellie stepped forward. Her hands stayed deep in her pockets. She didn’t speak.

Not yet.

She let the silence stretch. Let the familiar sounds settle back into her chest—the quiet clink of his bit against the wooden gate, the scuff of his hoof against the straw, the low creak of his stall when she leaned on it with her weight.

This was her world now. Five feet wide. One horse. No answers.

And she’d take it. Because it didn’t lie to her.

She reached over and unlatched the stall door, slow and deliberate, metal scraping soft against the wood. The gate swung open without resistance. Ember didn’t move, didn’t even blink. Just waited.

Ellie stepped inside.

The air was warmer in the stall. Still cold, but trapped between the weight of his body and the wooden walls. She pressed a hand to his neck. Solid. Alive.

“Hey, big guy,” she murmured, almost under her breath. “Still not sick of me?”

He blinked. Shifted his weight. Didn’t answer. Of course he didn’t.

She took off her bag and dropped it in the corner, near the same patch of straw she always did. Then pulled the old, stiff-bristled brush from the hook.

She didn’t start brushing right away. Just stood there, the tool in her hand like a forgotten weapon. Her gaze drifted across the boards, the bolts, the patterns the wind had etched in dust along the stall wall. Her fingers moved slow.

She began at his shoulder, drawing the brush down in long, steady strokes. Each pass a rhythm. Each stroke slower than the last.

Her voice came eventually. Quiet. Not even meant for him.

“Another morning. No word.”

Stroke.

“Still busy, I guess.”

Stroke.

“Not like I came all this way or anything.”

She paused.

Ember shifted slightly, pressing into the brush.

“You’d think if someone wanted you bad enough to send a kid halfway across the country, they’d at least show their fucking face once.”

Her grip on the brush tightened. She didn’t press harder. Just kept going. Same shoulder. Same stroke.

“But nah. Too busy. Too distracted. Too important.”

She didn’t name Ethan.

She didn’t have to.

“Feels familiar, huh?” she muttered.

She stopped brushing.

“Like someone else I used to know.”

That part came out sharper. Just a little. A spike of something sour under the weight of routine.

She didn’t say Abby’s name either.

But her chest pulled tight, the way it had in the mess hall. That sick, invisible string pulling between the dock and the training yard and the goddamn silence Abby left behind.

“Guess she got better at avoiding people than I did.”

She leaned into Ember’s side, forehead brushing against his coat.

“Can’t even blame her. I’m doing the same thing now.”

She let the silence return.

But it wasn’t empty this time. It sat with her. Pressed into the air like fog.

And she just kept brushing. One stroke at a time.

Because this?
This was all she had to show for being wanted.

“You miss me?” she asked, her voice low—more habit than question. Just loud enough for Ember to hear. “Or you just know I’m the one with the apples.”

He snorted. Shifted his weight.

The stall was warmer than the outside, but not by much. The heat came from Ember. From the way his breath moved through the straw. From the sound of her own shoes grinding against old dirt and hay.

She spoke—not because she expected him to understand, but because the silence had teeth, and she needed to keep it from biting.

“They said I’d meet him when he was free,” she murmured. “That was a week ago.”

The brush slowed. Her hand paused at the rise of his shoulder.

Ember blinked. Unbothered. Unmoved.

“He asked for me,” Ellie said. This time, the words came out thinner. Tighter. “But he can’t even show up.”

Her jaw twitched.

“That’s new.”

A bitter smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. It didn’t make it. Her face didn’t buy it, and neither did she.

“He’s probably busy,” she muttered. “Too many important things to do.”

She stepped closer, running the brush behind Ember’s ear. Her touch softened there, almost an apology.

“You get it, right?” Her voice dropped lower. “People say they want you. That they need you. But really?”

A pause. Her throat tightened.

“They just want something from you. Not you. Just… what you carry.”

The brush slipped in her hand. The bristles dragged sideways, catching against his coat. She caught it before it hit the floor.

She stared at her hand for a second. Just long enough to notice the tremble she didn’t want to acknowledge.

Then she leaned forward, slow and careful, pressing her forehead against the thick warmth of Ember’s shoulder. He didn’t shift away. He never did.

Her fingers still held the brush. Her other hand curled against the edge of the stall rail, knuckles white.

Her eyes burned suddenly. No warning. No lead-up. Just heat. Just pressure.

But she didn’t let it spill. She didn’t move.

Instead, she whispered:

“Still no word.”

___

She stayed longer at the stables than she meant to.

Ember’s coat was already brushed to a dull shine. His water bucket was full. She’d raked the straw, cleared out the old feed, re-tied his halter. Checked the saddle. Then checked it again. Adjusted the blanket he didn’t need. Smoothed out a wrinkle that wasn’t there.

Her hands moved like they had something important to do. Like if she just kept going, kept fidgeting, the minutes would obey her. Stretch thinner. Fold over themselves until they bled out into something useful.

But they didn’t.

She was just buying time. Buying silence.

Trying to convince herself she wasn’t just… waiting.

But she was.

Waiting for a man she hadn’t even seen.
Waiting for a face to match a name.
Waiting for someone who said he knew her mother—but couldn’t be bothered to know her.

She didn’t want to admit what that made her feel. Not yet. Not out loud.

So she tightened the strap on the saddle once more, even though it had been fine the first time. Her fingers worked the leather like she was winding a clock that hadn’t ticked in years.

It’s not about him, she told herself.
I’m just making sure Ember’s comfortable. That’s all.

But even Ember had stopped reacting. He stood still, eyes half-lidded, ears flicking now and then like he was tired of being fussed over.

And still, she stayed.

Because the alternative was walking away from this stall and having to face the truth:

That what she came for might not come for her.

That the person she’d crossed states to meet had already made his decision.

And just hadn’t said it out loud.

When the early shift of workers passed by—voices low, boots loud—Ellie finally peeled herself away from the stall. She didn’t say goodbye to Ember this time. Didn’t touch his neck. Just left, slow at first, then quicker, like she needed to escape the stillness before it glued her down for good.

The sky had changed again—less gray now, more like slate pulled tight across the sky. Unforgiving. The light didn’t warm anything. It just exposed the cracks.

The base buzzed with that edge-of-shift movement: crates passed between hands without conversation, doors slammed shut without urgency, people brushing by like parts in a machine too used to its rhythm to notice when something was out of sync.

Ellie kept her pace steady. Not fast enough to look nervous. Not slow enough to look like she was waiting.

Because if she moved slow, it would feel like she was hoping.

And she wasn’t.
Not anymore.

She rounded the corner near the mess hall and almost missed her—Talia, sharp in the way some people were born, not made. Cap pulled low, sleeves rolled to her elbows, dark smudge on her wrist like she hadn’t washed up from the last job. The kind of look that said: I don’t have time for sentiment.

Ellie kept walking. But Talia noticed.

“Morning,” she said, voice casual, stepping just enough into Ellie’s path to be acknowledged.

Ellie stopped. Shifted her weight. Didn’t smile.

Her thumb hooked in her pocket, tight enough to hurt.

“Any word?”

Talia blinked. And for a second—just a second—her face did something weird. Not guilt. Not surprise. Just… recognition. The kind of flicker you get when you know someone’s about to be disappointed and you don’t want to be the one to tell them.

“Doc’s still tied up,” she said, her voice light but clipped. “Samples. Cultures. Whatever he’s buried himself in today.”

Ellie stared at her, unmoving.

Talia’s jaw shifted, just slightly. Like she didn’t want to say more. But also couldn’t quite leave it at that.

“He’s… like that,” she added. “Once he’s locked in, you could set the building on fire and he wouldn’t notice.”

Ellie didn’t answer. Didn’t blink. The silence stretched just long enough to make it uncomfortable.

He asked for me.
He sent for me.
And I’ve been here a goddamn week.

Talia shifted again—this time, more like guilt. Or maybe irritation.

Ellie could feel it in her ribs now, tight and sharp, like something had crawled in there and was scraping from the inside. Her tongue pressed flat against her teeth. Her mouth tasted like dust.

She forced a nod. Not because she believed it. Just because not nodding would’ve cost her too much.

Talia gave her a half-smile, quick and tight. It never reached her eyes. “I’ll let you know the second he’s free. Promise.”

Promise.

The word hit harder than it should’ve. Like it meant something. Like it hadn’t already been broken by every hour she’d spent trying not to look at the lab hallway like a kicked dog.

Ellie didn’t reply. Just let the silence speak.

Talia hesitated. Like she might say something else. But she didn’t.

She turned and walked away, already fitting herself back into the rhythm of the compound. Boots stomping mud from her soles. Shoulders back. Jaw set.

Ellie watched her go, that fake promise echoing in her chest like a cough she couldn’t clear.

She didn’t move.

She didn’t breathe.

She just stood there, hands tight in her jacket, the wind tugging at her sleeves like it wanted her to scream.

But she didn’t.

She just swallowed it down. Again.

She caught another face nearby—Reid, maybe. One of the Fireflies who’d ridden in with Cameron, quieter than the others, clipboard always in hand like it gave him purpose.

He stood a few feet from the mess hall entrance, eyes scanning a supply list like the ink might change if he stared hard enough. His lips moved without sound, counting, calculating, living in a world where she didn’t exist.

Ellie passed close enough that her shoe brushed the corner of a crate. Close enough that her shadow crossed his page.

He glanced up.

Briefly.

Eyes flicked over her face, then down her body. Not in judgment. Not in curiosity. Not even in suspicion.

Just… scanning.

Like he was checking off a line item on his clipboard.

Not a greeting.
Not even recognition.

Just a body passing through.

Ellie’s chest flinched. Her pace slowed—not because she meant to. Because her body reacted first, legs hesitating the way they always did when she hit a memory she didn’t want. Her heart thudded. Once. Twice. Then fell back into that awful, familiar rhythm. The one that said don’t show it.

She kept moving.

But now her footsteps were quieter. Slower. Not hiding. Just heavy.

The path curved toward the supply tents. Canvas walls rippling with wind, seams stained from rain that never quite dried. The crates were stacked high and neat—too neat. Like the people who worked here needed order to keep from slipping.

She walked between them.

Not looking for anything. Not pretending to.

She walked because standing still made it worse.

Somewhere nearby, a Firefly barked out a number. Another answered with a laugh she didn’t recognize.

She drifted between the rows like a ghost that hadn’t figured out it was dead. Her eyes moved over boxes labeled with hand-scrawled notes: MED RATIONS, COPPER WIRE, STERNITE 5B. No clipboard. No job. No name tag. No purpose.

No one stopped her.

No one said her name.

No one said "go find Ethan."

No one even asked what she was doing there.

Not even a glance.

Just another shape passing through a space that didn’t remember inviting her.

Her steps slowed further. One hand slid into her jacket pocket. The other curled into a fist and stayed there.

And the thing that sank in deepest—the one that landed quiet, like a needle slipping under skin without pain—was the realization:

They didn’t even notice she was still waiting.

Not just for Ethan.
For anyone.

She had come all this way.
Left Jackson. Left Dina.
Left JJ.

Walked away from the only two people who still looked at her like she mattered.

And now?

Now she was just…

Another body loitering in a hallway no one owned.
Another question no one bothered asking.

She stopped between two crates. Closed her eyes for half a second.

The wind hit the side of the tent, flapped it against the pole.

She didn’t move.

Because if she did, she might crack her teeth open from the way she was holding her jaw.

Her pulse throbbed, dull and steady, behind her eyes.

A slow drumbeat of anger with no place to land.

She turned back toward the stables, her shoes scuffing harder now against the packed dirt—heel dragging, sole catching. Kicking up small clouds of dust she didn’t wipe away. Didn’t feel like earning her path clean anymore.

The wind pushed at her back. Cold and useless.

Her chest felt hollow. Not empty—but echoing. Like someone had struck her ribcage just once, hard, and left the sound ringing.

He asked for you, her mind hissed, sharp and quiet. He wanted to meet you. Didn’t he?

She clenched her jaw until her teeth ached.

Shoved the thought down like something foul stuck in her throat. Like bile.

She walked faster. Not running. Just… harder. Heavier. Feet hitting the ground like she was trying to make it feel her.

Every step cracked the surface beneath her a little more.

But no one stopped her.

No one turned.

No one said her name.

No one said a goddamn thing.

Just like they hadn’t yesterday.

Just like they wouldn’t tomorrow.

___

The next morning came without permission.

No alarm. No light shift through the window. Just a slow awareness that the dark behind her eyes had stopped meaning sleep.

Ellie blinked once. Stared at the ceiling.

Same cracks in the plaster. Same silence pressing against the walls.

She didn’t sigh. Didn’t move right away.

Her body had started to accept it, this loop. Like muscle memory taught in a prison cell. Wake. Eat. Feed the horse. Wait. Be forgotten.

It didn’t hurt. Not really.
It just dulled everything.

She rolled onto her side with a stiffness that hadn’t been there a week ago. Her arm was numb. Her back ached. But not from use—from the stillness. From the way her bones were beginning to learn this bed like it was a cage.

No dreams again.
Not even the bad kind.

Her breath came shallow, slow. Her mind didn’t reach for thoughts right away. It hovered—just out of reach—like it, too, was tired of doing this.

She sat up with a slow pull. No urgency. No noise.

The floor was cold beneath her feet. Her socks were damp from where she’d tossed them last night without thinking. She didn’t change them. Just slipped on her shoes—same battered Converses, laces still knotted from yesterday.

Everything felt reused.

The flannel shirt slung over the chair was wrinkled. The same pair of jeans lay folded at the foot of the bed where she’d left them. She dressed without looking down. Without checking the cracked mirror. What would’ve been the point?

Nothing about her was changing.

The outside of her cabin was quiet. A few early risers moving somewhere distant, their steps soft and deliberate. She didn’t care what time it was. Didn’t even glance toward the window for light. Her body moved on habit, not hunger.

Out the door. Down the path. Same route. Same gravel catching underfoot in the same places.

The base was quieter today.

Or maybe she’d just stopped listening.

Maybe the silence wasn’t outside anymore.

Maybe it had taken root.

The mess hall was half-empty when she slipped in.

Same creak of the side door. Same smell of reheated oats and metal trays. Same hum of distant voices not meant for her.

She didn’t check the clock. Didn’t need to.

Her body knew the rhythm by now—the window where it was quiet enough to be ignored, but not late enough to be noticed.

Her hands moved on autopilot. Tray. Bowl. The ladle was still warm from whoever came before her. She scooped the sludge without thought. Gray. Clumped. The kind of food that didn’t taste like anything, just took up space.

She carried it to the same table in the back corner. Always that one. Always the seat that faced the door. Just in case.

She sat. The bench creaked faintly beneath her.

No one turned.

No one said hi.

Not even a glance.

She picked up her spoon. Stirred the oats once. Twice. Watched the steam curl upward like it wanted to leave, too.

She took a bite.

It hit her tongue and turned to paste. No sweetness. No warmth. No comfort. Just something thick and necessary.

She ate like she was fueling a machine she didn’t believe in anymore.

Around her, the room started to fill—just enough to feel the hum of life return.

A quiet laugh near the window. Two guys arguing over who was on gate shift. Someone dropped a tray and swore under their breath. Nothing big. Nothing loud. Just human noise.

Normal.

She watched them without looking directly. The way you watch a party you weren’t invited to from across the street.

And that ache—the one under her ribs, the one she pretended not to name—tightened another notch.

No one looked at her.

Not like they used to in Jackson, where people smiled even when they didn’t mean it.
Not like Salt Lake, where the whispers came with awe, like she was made of prophecy.
Not like Santa Barbara, where suspicion had teeth.

Here?

Here, she wasn’t a myth.

She wasn’t anything.
Just a detail.
Too quiet to bother.
Too heavy to touch.

And maybe that was worse.

She watched the others move around each other with ease. Elbows nudging. Voices overlapping. Cups passed across tables, laughter shared between bites. Casual, unconscious connection.

Not family. Not friends.
But in it together.

Ellie wasn’t in it.
Wasn’t even near it.

They didn’t avoid her.

But they didn’t see her either.

And that, somehow, was sharper than any knife she still carried.

___

Later, in the stables, Ember lifted his head before she even reached his stall.

No whinny. No stomp. Just the soft turn of his neck, ears flicking toward her.

He didn’t move toward her.

Didn’t need to.

He knew.

It was the same.

Ellie stepped inside, shoes soft against the straw-covered floor. The air smelled like leather and damp earth. The same as it had yesterday. The same as it would tomorrow.

She dropped her saddlebag in the usual corner. Let it slump to the ground with a quiet thud. Reached up, unhooked the brush from its nail. Her fingers closed around the worn wooden handle with too much familiarity.

She didn’t speak.

Not at first.

Her hands moved on their own, finding the same rhythm they always did. Short strokes down his back. Along the ribs. Over the flank. The pattern lived in her now. She didn’t have to think about it.

Same brush. Same coat. Same silence.

Until her voice pushed its way out—low, brittle. Not shaped for conversation. Just escape.

“Still no update.”

She brushed harder without realizing. The bristles scraped faster. Her wrist moved tight, like the motion was wound too tight around her bones.

A sharp flick. A too-hard press.

Ember flinched. Just slightly.

She stopped instantly. Let the brush fall from her hand.

It hit the straw with a dull sound, almost like a breath leaving a mouth.

“Shit,” she muttered.

One hand rose to her hair, dragging back through the tangled curls, fingers catching.

She breathed. Once. Twice. Not deep enough.

Then her voice came again—softer now, but bitter at the edges. Bitter like rust in her teeth.

“Maybe he forgot.”

The words hung there.

She stared at the wood grain on the stall wall like it might answer.

“Maybe I wasn’t on the list.”

That one landed harder than she expected.

Not shouted.

Just… accepted.

And that was worse.

She leaned on the stall door, elbows hooked over the worn wood, her forehead pressed against her arm.

Her breath fogged gently along the fabric of her sleeve.

The straw under her shoes was soft—too soft. The kind that made you think, if you just let yourself slide down, knees first, then spine, you could stay there. Just… not get back up.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t want to.

“I mean…” Her voice cracked the quiet like a twig underfoot. “What did I expect?”

The words weren’t meant for Ember.
Not really for herself either.
Just a sound to keep the silence from swallowing her.

“He wanted me here. Sure.” Her mouth twisted around it.
“But maybe that’s all it was. Wanting me here. Not…”

She swallowed the rest.
Not me.

Not this version of me.

Not the tired, silent, twitching-in-her-skin, not-sure-how-to-belong one.

Her eyes dropped to the floor.

The straw shifted as Ember moved, slow and steady, behind her. A hoof scraped lightly. The creak of weight redistributing. Comfort. Indifference.

A single fly buzzed past her ear and landed on the stall rail. She didn’t flinch.

She didn’t blink.

She just watched it.

And let the minutes go.

No footsteps.
No voices.
No one calling her name.

It was quiet here.

Safe.

Too safe.

No questions. No demands. No infected.
No blood.
And no answers.

And that—somehow—that was the part that scared her the most.

Because this stillness?

This almost peace?

It could last forever.

And if it did…
She might forget why she ever left.

“I should be doing something,” she whispered.

The words felt bitter in her throat—like saying them made her smaller, not stronger.

“Not waiting like some fucking stray…” Her voice cracked. “Hoping someone whistles.”

The stall didn’t echo, but the words still bounced off the walls and curled back toward her.

She shoved herself upright.

Harder than she meant to.

The brush slipped from her hand, hit the floor with a clatter that cut through the quiet like a dropped plate in a funeral home.

Ember flinched, ears flattening. Snorted once.

Ellie froze. The sound hung in the air too long.

“Shit,” she muttered, barely above a breath. “Sorry.”

She crouched to grab the brush. Her knees popped, loud in the stillness. She stayed down longer than she needed to, one hand braced on the straw, the other gripping the handle like it might splinter if she let go.

Her knuckles whitened.
Her jaw ached from how tightly it was clenched.

The silence crept back in, inch by inch.

Too fast.
Too familiar.
Too eager—like it had been waiting to pull her back under.

A weight around her shoulders. A hand on the back of her neck.

She stood slowly.

One breath. Then another.

She didn’t brush anymore.

Just laid her arms gently over Ember’s back. Let her body fold into the curve of his spine. Pressed her cheek to his shoulder, eyes closing—not from rest, but retreat.

“They’re never gonna come, are they?”

Her voice was softer now. Not broken. Just… worn.

Ember blinked.

Said nothing.

Neither did anyone else.

The late afternoon light bled through the cracks in the stable wall.

Not golden.
Not warm.

Just pale. Brittle.
The kind of light that didn’t touch the skin—just pointed out what was collecting in the corners. Dust. Splinters. Things left undone.

Ellie sat on the edge of the feed bin, elbows digging into her knees, shoulders curled forward like she was trying to fold herself smaller. Her fingers moved in a slow, unconscious rhythm—thumb against nail, nail against callus, over and over, rubbing the edge raw.

Across from her, Ember chewed through a dried apple with the same indifference he gave everything.

Like the world didn’t matter unless it was touching him directly.

Normally, that quiet steadiness was enough.
But today?

Today it felt like the last thread slipping.

Her jaw ached. She hadn’t noticed until her molars pulsed against each other.

She opened her mouth, but her voice came out flat. Dry. Not angry—just scraped thin.

“You know what’s fucked?”

She didn’t expect a response. Didn’t pause for one.

“I wouldn’t even be this mad if they just said he didn’t want to see me.”

Her voice didn’t crack. That was worse.

It was steady.
Cold.

Ember snorted softly, ears flicking. Not a protest. Not approval. Just sound.

Ellie stood, the motion too quick for her body to be ready for it. She winced slightly, knees tight from crouching too long. Then she started to pace.

Three steps.
Turn.
Three steps back.

The stall felt smaller with every pass, like her skin was pressing outward and the walls were closing in.

“They said he wanted to meet. That he asked for me.”

Each word sharpened as it left her mouth.

“They got Lev to come all the way to Jackson. They made it sound like—like this was urgent. Like I mattered. Like I—”

She stopped walking.

Fists curled.

Shut her eyes hard enough to see stars.

“Like I’m some fucking package they had to deliver.”

Silence.

Even Ember was still.

Her breath trembled through her nose. She lifted a hand and pressed it hard to her mouth.

When she spoke again, it was quiet. Tighter.

“They could’ve told me he was dead.”

A beat.

“Or that he changed his mind.”

Another.

“Or that I was just a mistake on someone’s goddamn list.”

She swallowed.

Her voice dropped to almost nothing.

“I could’ve handled that.”

But not this.

Not the silence.
Not the nothing.
Not being forgotten after being asked for.

And that’s when something shifted. Not like a scream. Not like a fire. Just…

The lock coming loose.

She leaned against the wooden beam again, pressing her forehead into it until the rough grain bit back.

It scraped her skin. She didn’t move.

“But this?” she muttered, breath leaking out with the words. “This... fuckin’ silence?”

Her jaw clenched.

“Like I’m supposed to be grateful to just be here. To wait for a goddamn moment I didn’t ask for?”

Her hand slammed into the beam.

Not hard enough to hurt. Not hard enough to break anything.

Just loud enough to shatter the quiet she’d been trapped in.

Just loud enough to break her.

The stall went still.
Even Ember didn’t move.

Like it was all waiting.
Like something had shifted.

Ellie stepped back.

She didn’t shake.
Didn’t breathe heavy.
She just was.

Her eyes stayed fixed on the wall for a second longer, as if trying to see through it.

Then she blinked.

Took a slow breath.
Swallowed once.
Let calm settle over her like ice.

“No more waiting.”

Her voice didn’t waver.
Didn’t rise.
It landed.

Stone. Absolute.

She crossed the stall in three brisk steps.

Grabbed her jacket from the hook, the movement sharp and sure. Shrugged it on like armor, fists already tightening inside the sleeves.

Her hand went to her thigh. Checked the Beretta. Didn’t need it. Not really. But the weight felt real. Felt grounding.

She touched her blade in her pocket next—muscle memory.

Not because she was afraid.

Because this was who she was.

She turned to Ember.

Ran a hand over the thick muscle of his neck, slow, steady, her fingers quieter now. Not saying goodbye. Just promising.

“I’ll be back,” she whispered. “Soon as I get some goddamn answers.”

He blinked once. Like he believed her.

She pulled the stall door shut behind her.

Stepped into the chill outside.

No wind.
No sound.

The sky above was flat and low, like it wanted to hold her back.

Too late.

Her shoes hit the gravel path like punctuation.

Sharp. Final.

She didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t look over her shoulder.
Didn’t ask where she was going.

She already knew.

___

The labs were clustered near the east wing of the compound.

White-paneled. Stark against the earth. Half-covered in vines that curled like fingers around doorframes and windows, choking the corners. Some still bore the faded Firefly insignia—sun-bleached and flaking, like a memory someone tried to forget but couldn’t quite scrape off.

Ellie had passed them before.

She’d kept her distance. Trusted the process. Trusted Talia to come find her. Trusted the rhythm of “soon.”

She wasn’t trusting anyone now.

She walked the narrow gravel path with purpose, fists buried in her jacket pockets, eyes scanning each door like she meant to tear the answers from them by force.

The first building loomed to her left—small, single-doored, quiet.

She pushed it open.

Inside: a pair of researchers, mid-discussion over a microscope, stopped talking when they saw her.

One of them blinked, then frowned. “You can’t be in here—”

Ellie shut the door.

Didn’t say a word.

Didn’t apologize.

She moved to the next.

Another door. Another wrong face.

This time, a supply room. A younger guy glanced up from a crate of chemical jars, startled. “Uh, you—this area’s—”

Click. Door shut again.

She walked faster.

The air back here was colder. The buildings didn’t hold heat. The shadows stretched long and quiet, the wind catching at the vines with soft, dry whispers that grated more than soothed.

Her jaw tightened. The inside of her cheek ached from where she’d been biting it. Her fingers rubbed at the seam of her pocket, itching to draw her knife just for the feel of it in her hand.

She tried the next building. This one had glass windows—half-fogged from condensation. She stepped inside without knocking.

Three lab coats. A tangle of wires. The scent of rubbing alcohol and electricity. Nobody she recognized.

“Can I help you?” one asked, not unkindly.

Ellie didn’t answer.

She backed out. Let the door swing closed.

Didn’t even flinch when it slammed harder than she meant.

The next door was locked.

She yanked at the handle anyway. Once. Twice. Hard enough to rattle the frame.

You wanted me here. Then fucking come find me.

Her breath hitched in her chest—not from panic, but from the sheer pressure of it all. Of being ignored. Of being left to pace the edge of someone else's silence.

She turned, stalked further down the row.

The path narrowed. The buildings grew older here—less polished. More overgrown. She almost missed the next door entirely. It was tucked behind a leaning tree and a tangle of ivy. No sign. No welcome. Just a blank face in the compound’s wall.

She stared at it.

And something inside her tightened.

Not with hope.

With certainty.

This was it.

Or if it wasn’t—it should be.

She stepped forward.

And reached for the handle.

And pushed.

___

The door creaked open on hinges that hadn’t seen oil in months. Maybe longer.

It was the kind of creak that didn’t ask permission. It announced you—loud, dry, and uncomfortable.

Good, Ellie thought.

Let him know someone finally came.

The air inside hit her like a forgotten room. Cool and still, but layered—dust first, dry and thick, then something sharp underneath it. Vinegar. Alcohol, maybe. Preserved things. And beneath that, a sterile tang that didn’t match the clutter. Like the room couldn’t decide if it wanted to be a lab or a tomb.

Her boots crossed the threshold. The door drifted shut behind her with a slow, dragging sigh.

Her eyes scanned the space, sharp and fast.

Shelves lined the walls, packed tight—books, mostly, but not neatly. Stacked sideways. Shoved into gaps. Dog-eared and splitting at the spine. Some were marked with symbols she didn’t recognize, others stained with what looked like ink—or mold.

Next to the books: samples. Small vials. Plastic trays. Glass containers filled with murky fluid and floating shapes she didn’t want to look at too long.

One jar held what might’ve been a flower. Or an ear. Or something in between.

She didn’t flinch. But her stomach pulled tight.

A fireplace sat dead against the far wall, mantle sagging under the weight of more books and unlabeled containers. Dust curled along the edges. No fire. No warmth. Just a space pretending it was once lived in.

There was only one desk—sturdy, scarred, cluttered with notes and lab equipment. A microscope, pushed off to one side like it had been used too recently to clean, but too long ago to be relevant. The chair behind it was empty.

Two armchairs faced the desk, mismatched and worn. One sagged deeper than the other. Both looked like they had absorbed more silence than conversation.

Ellie stood just inside the door.

Not moving. Not breathing heavy.
Just… simmering.

This was it.
This was his place.
This was where the man who asked for her had been hiding.
She was sure about it.

She stepped forward, jaw clenched so hard her teeth ached.

This is where he’s been. This whole time. While I sat around brushing a horse and trying not to scream.

Her fingers itched. Her blade stayed in her pocket. But it was close.

And if this Ethan asshole walked in right now—if he so much as looked at her like she was interrupting?

She might put him through the goddamn desk.

Suddenly, a voice drifted from the back of the lab.

Male. Older. Irritated in a way that didn’t match the silence she'd just stepped out of. A tone that belonged to someone so wrapped in their own routine they couldn’t imagine anyone else breaking it.

“Cassandra,” the voice barked, nasal and worn. “I swear to God, if you’re here again asking about scav supplies, I will retire myself to the grave and take the rest of the ethanol with me.”

The words hit her like cold water—sudden, ridiculous, sharp. But it didn’t cool anything down.

Ellie blinked.
Her breath caught.
Not from fear.
Not from surprise.

Just pure, incredulous rage.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

She took a step forward.
Slow. Deliberate.

Her shoes struck the concrete with a dull thud.
The kind of sound that announces something is coming. Something that doesn’t want to wait anymore.

She didn’t raise her voice.

Didn’t need to.

“Not Cassandra,” she said flatly.

Steel. Controlled. Laced with a threat that hadn’t quite surfaced.

“I’m looking for the doctor.”

Silence.

Real silence this time. The kind that knew it had made a mistake.

A pause.

Then—shuffling.
Papers rustling.
A clink of metal against glass.
A chair scraping.

Ellie tensed, shoulders coiled, as if her body expected something to explode or collapse.

But nothing did.

Just the sound of age moving.

From behind a tall shelf near the back of the lab, a figure stepped out—

Slowly. Unimpressed. As if even now, he wasn’t sure she was worth the attention.

Old.

That was the first thing Ellie saw.

Not weak. Not soft. Just… old.

Sharp-eyed beneath wiry brows. Skin pulled tight around his cheekbones, mapped with age in a way that didn’t invite sympathy. A white beard, trimmed too short to soften him. His hair pulled back into a low knot, streaked through with smoke-colored strands that might’ve once been black.

His lab coat—off-white now, stained at the cuffs—looked like it had been worn through at least three pandemics. One sleeve was fraying. The front was covered in ink smudges, fingerprinted with old coffee, maybe blood. Maybe worse.

He moved like someone who didn’t waste time on unnecessary gestures. No smile. No acknowledgment. Just one long look.

Right at her.

Not into her.

Through her.

Like she was an interruption. A stain on the floor someone hadn’t bothered mopping up.

His lip curled.

Then came the scoff.

Dry. Sharp.

“For you, young lady,” he said, voice flat as gravel, “it’s Doctor Hersch.”

It wasn’t just the words.
It was the way he said them.

Like they were meant to pin her to the spot. Like formality was a weapon, and he expected her to flinch.

Ellie didn’t flinch.

But her mouth opened. Slightly. Then closed.

A muscle twitched near her temple.

Her shoulders tensed—tight enough she could feel it down her spine.

This is him?
This is who I crossed half the country for?
This cranky, dried-up, self-important son of a bitch?

The silence in the room felt like it inhaled.

And the world didn’t spin.
It didn’t explode.
Didn’t crack open into clarity.

It just… soured.

Turned bitter on her tongue.
Heavy in her lungs.
Like something had rotted in the air.

And for one brutal second, Ellie almost laughed.

But she didn’t.

Ellie didn’t answer right away.

She just stared at him. Felt the heat crawl up her throat, settle behind her eyes, burn across her jaw like frostbite.

All the waiting.
All the silence.
All the polite, careful pretending not to care.

And this was her welcome?

She took a step forward, shoes scuffing the concrete. Her fists were clenched inside her jacket, fingernails digging half-moons into her palms.

“I didn’t come here to play nice with some relic who thinks condescension’s a personality trait.”

The words came hard. Too hard. She didn’t mean to say them like that.

But she didn’t stop either.

“You wanna call me ‘young lady,’ fine. You wanna size me up like I’m a mess on your floor, be my guest. But don’t stand there acting like I showed up to waste your time.”

Her voice rose. Just a notch.

“Because I didn’t ask to come here. I didn’t beg to meet some genius behind a desk. I came because someone sent for me. Because you people said you had answers. And I’ve been fed nothing but silence and half-promises ever since I stepped foot in this place.”

Hersch’s brows lifted slightly, like he hadn’t expected her to speak, let alone bark back.

But Ellie wasn’t finished.

Her breath was shaking now, but she didn’t care.

“If you’re the guy who wanted to meet me, then maybe next time, show the fuck up.”

Silence.

Sharp. Immediate. Like the air recoiled.

Even Ember wouldn’t have shifted in this kind of tension.

For a heartbeat, Ellie didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink.

The shame tried to creep in. That she said too much. Too fast. Too loud.

But something else rose up first.

Pride.
No, not pride—truth.

This had been building.

And it had to come out.

Even if it came out ugly.

But before Ellie could speak again—before the words fuck you could even form on her tongue—

Another door creaked open from the far end of the room.

Not the one she came through.

The far back. Hidden. Unmarked.

A second voice slipped into the room.

Younger.
Calmer.
Distracted in the way only people with too much on their minds and too many years behind them could be.

“Hersch, you were right,” the voice said. “Part of her stuff was still at the old infirmary. I found it tucked behind the—”

He stopped.

Just—stopped.

Like something jammed in his throat mid-sentence and pulled the rest of the words down with it.

Ellie turned.

Her breath caught before she even meant to inhale.

He stood halfway through the doorway. A wooden box in his arms. His sleeves rolled to the forearms, his glasses sliding slowly down the bridge of his nose.

He wasn’t old. Not like Hersch. But not young either.

Mid-forties, maybe. Hair disheveled like he hadn’t meant to be seen today. Face a little too open. A little too honest.

His eyes found hers.

And the box tipped slightly in his arms, like he forgot he was holding it.

His mouth opened. A breath caught. And then—

Like someone punched the air out of him without laying a hand on his chest—

He whispered it.

Not like a question.
Not like a mistake.
Like a memory breaking the surface.

“…Anna.”

Chapter Text

The room had gone too quiet. Not silent—but still, like the air itself had forgotten how to move.

Ellie didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe, not fully. Just stood there, coat still damp from the mist outside, her shoes squeaking faintly against the vinyl tile. Her knuckles still ached from where they’d gripped Ember’s reins too tight all morning. She had planned what to say if she ever saw him. A thousand sentences. A thousand questions. But now her throat felt thick with ash.

The man in the doorway was older than she’d imagined. Grayer at the temples. Softer in the eyes. Lines at the corners of his mouth that hadn’t come from laughter. Not recently. He wasn’t armed, wasn’t armored, wasn’t ready. Just holding a crate like he’d been caught walking into the wrong life.

Ellie’s body went still in that way it did when prey saw the predator—but here, it was reversed. She felt like the monster. Like she had shown up in someone else’s memory and dared to ask if they remembered her.

Ethan blinked. Once. Twice. The box shifted again in his arms.

Then nothing.

The silence stretched like skin over a wound. Ellie’s heart kicked once. Hard. Her fingers twitched near her pocket, not for the blade—just something to hold. Something that grounded. Something that reminded her she was real.

She hated the way her voice stuck. Hated the heat rising at the back of her neck, hated that her mind had already run down a dozen possible explanations for the look on his face. Recognition. Denial. Regret.

He looked like a man who had been living fine without her.

She swallowed hard, but the knot didn’t move.

Of course he hadn’t come to see her.

Of course he had waited for the hallway to make their reunion happen—awkward, accidental, like a bump in the mess line.

She had crossed the country, nearly drowned on a boat, traded her safety in Jackson for this place.

And he had left her waiting.

Seven days. Seven fucking days.

And now all she got was a stare and a box of lab equipment.

Her voice came rough, low, almost ugly from how tight it had been coiled in her chest.

“You’re Ethan.”

No question. No warmth. Just a name tossed between them like a lit match.

He didn’t deny it.

Didn’t smile either.

Just nodded, slow—his mouth parting as if he meant to say something, but whatever he had planned never made it out. His eyes flicked to her scar, then her mouth, then her left hand. That brief glance—like a checklist of things he thought he knew.

Ellie’s jaw tightened.

She wanted to scream. Or punch the box out of his arms. Or walk away before he could speak and ruin the version of him she’d imagined in her head. The kind man. The one who might have cared. The one who didn’t leave her alone in this place where no one said her name.

Instead, she shifted her weight. Just slightly. The kind of motion that says: If I move now, it’s over. If I stay, I might bleed.

Ethan finally exhaled, the sound quiet, too controlled.

“I—I wasn’t expecting…” he began, then paused.

Ellie raised an eyebrow, slow and sharp. “Me?”

His throat moved. He looked down at the box in his hands like it held better answers.

“I was told you were adjusting,” he said softly.

Ellie barked a laugh. No humor. All teeth.

“Right,” she said. “Is that what they call waiting around for someone who doesn’t show?”

The silence came back. Not even tension now—just exhaustion. The office around them felt thinner. Like it couldn’t hold both of them. Like it would buckle if one of them said what they actually meant.

Hersch, still hunched over a tray of sealed vials near the far table, turned toward them at last with a sharp sigh of irritation. His tone, clipped and dry, cut through the stale quiet.

“Finally. Can we get back to what actually matters now?”

Ellie didn’t turn her head, but her spine straightened so fast it looked like she’d been struck.

She hadn’t known who this man was before she walked in—hadn’t cared. But now, with that tone? That dismissal? She felt her jaw tighten and the heat return to her throat.

She tilted her head, voice sharp as broken glass.

“You always treat people like they’re in your way, or am I just lucky today?”

Silas glanced at her sideways, brow raised like she was a cockroach that had wandered too close to his microscope. “I see we’re welcoming mouthy guests now. That’ll be fun.”

He turned back to his tray, clearly done with her.

Ellie took a half step forward, shoulders coiled, ready to bark something back—ready to take him by the collar and make him look her in the eye—but then Ethan moved.

Not fast. Not loud. Just enough.

He blinked—twice—like shaking off fog, then shifted the box in his arms and cleared his throat.

“Sorry, Silas,” he said, with a measured calm that contrasted the room’s rising tension. “Let’s catch up later on your findings, alright?”

Hersch gave a theatrical sigh and started toward the door, waving one hand dismissively. “You’ll need courage dealing with this one,” he muttered under his breath as he passed Ellie. His voice dripped with passive contempt. Then, tossing a smirk over his shoulder: “Good luck, kid.”

Ellie’s fists clenched at her sides.

She could’ve shoved him down outside the door and not regretted it for a second.

But Ethan beat her to a response—his voice calm, dry, tinged with a thread of irony.

“I’ll take good note of it, Dad. Let's meet later.”

The words weren’t mean, but they made Hersch grunt—a noise that might’ve been amusement or just noise. The door shut behind him with a soft click.

When the door clicked shut behind Hersch, silence settled again—heavier this time, as if it had been waiting its turn.

Ethan didn’t speak right away. He just stood there, still holding the box for a breath too long, eyes fixed on Ellie like she might vanish if he blinked.

Then, slowly, he turned and walked to the desk, setting the box down with care, like it held something fragile. Maybe it did.

He adjusted his glasses. Smoothed the crease at his shoulder. Then gestured to the old leather armchair across from his desk, the one worn at the edges from long hours and long nights.

“Would you care for some tea?” he asked, almost too casually. Then, realizing how old-fashioned it sounded, he added, “Or coffee. Or water, if you’d prefer.”

His voice was warm, a bit too polished for the room’s tension, but not artificial. There was something unmistakably British in his phrasing—something not learned, but inherited. The vowels round, the manners built into bone.

He was trying. That much was clear.

Not to impress her.

To center himself.

To make the moment make sense.

But to Ellie, the offer hit like sandpaper. Politeness in the face of rage.

She didn’t sit.

She didn’t answer.

She just looked at him. Unblinking. Like she was still trying to figure out if this was all some elaborate trick. She tried to picture what this moment was supposed to look like. What Joel would’ve said, or if he would’ve stood beside her. If Anna would’ve smiled, or apologized, or if they would’ve just stood like this—strangers with too much between them. But all she had was the silence. And Ethan.

Her jaw flexed once. Her arms stayed by her sides—taut, unreadable—but her fingers itched toward her pockets again. Not for the blade. Just for the weight of it. The known of it.

Ethan’s hand hovered halfway to the kettle near the back of the room, but when she didn’t respond, he let it drop.

He cleared his throat again. Softer this time. And looked down.

Ellie didn’t move to sit.

Instead, she stepped forward—slow, deliberate. Not a gesture of trust. Not even curiosity. It was a confrontation. Her shoes landed heavy on the tile, each step announcing what words hadn’t yet said.

The desk between them was just furniture. But in that moment, it felt like a line in the sand.

She stopped just short of it, squared her shoulders.

“Is that why I’m here?” she snapped. “So you can stare at a ghost?”

Ethan didn’t flinch—but something in his throat moved.

He sat slowly, settling behind the desk like his knees needed reminding what to do.

His glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose as he leaned forward. He adjusted them with careful fingers, but didn’t look her in the eye.

His gaze fell to her hands.

And for a moment, his jaw shifted—like he almost said something else. Something not meant for her.

“You hold your hands,” he said softly, “the same way your mother did.”

The words shouldn’t have landed. Not really. Not after all the silence. Not after all the time. But they hit low in her ribs. A cold, invisible punch.

Ellie blinked.

The heat that had been climbing the back of her neck faltered.

She scoffed on instinct—reflexive, angry. Stepped back a half-inch. Her feet wanted distance, even if the rest of her wanted to stand ground. She crossed her arms with sharp defiance, like armor snapping into place.

Ethan’s voice didn’t rise. Didn’t fill the room. It just followed her through the air.

“She used to dig her nails into her palm,” he continued, “when she didn’t trust someone.”

Ellie’s jaw tightened. Her stare shifted to the side. Her fingers, curled beneath her arms, flexed once—caught in the act. She hadn’t even realized she’d been doing it.

She hated that he noticed. Hated that he was right.

It wasn’t a guess. It was something only someone who knew could say.

The shame made it worse.

“Yeah? Great,” she muttered, low but laced with bite. “You gonna start telling me how I breathe like her next?”

Her chin lifted, defensive. But her shoulders betrayed her—high, tight, wound like wire. She wasn’t afraid.

She just didn’t want to be seen.

Not like this.

Not by him.

Ethan said nothing. Just lifted a ceramic cup to his lips, sipping calmly—like he hadn’t just peeled back a layer of her skin without raising his voice.

Almost too calm.

Like he was waiting.

Like he’d done this before.

Ellie noticed.

The quiet. The way he sipped that tea like it wasn’t the end of the world. Like he had all the time in the goddamn day to play this slow-burn professor act while she stood there—raw, clenched, unraveling.

And it pissed her off even more.

Her voice cut the air like broken ice.

“Seriously?”

The word snapped louder than she meant, but she didn’t care. Didn’t flinch.

“You kept me waiting for a week.”

She took a step forward again, not yelling—but her tone coiled tight enough to snap steel. Each syllable crisp, deliberate.

“You’re the one who wanted me here. You sent Lev. You sent your fucking people.”

Another breath, tighter now. Her fingers twitched, flexing again around nothing.

“So why the fuck am I standing in front of a stranger with a box of old shit instead of actual answers?”

She didn’t raise her voice, not fully. But it had the weight of shouting. Of fury held back just enough to sting more.

And under all of it—beneath the words and the venom—was the ache that she'd never admit out loud:

You left me waiting. Like I didn’t matter.

Like I was just another note in a folder. Another variable in your lab.

Ethan still didn’t interrupt. He just watched her, but it didn’t feel passive. It felt like he was... listening. Actually listening. And for some reason, that made it worse.

He opened his mouth—just slightly, just enough to start—but Ellie wasn’t done.

Not even close.

Her voice cracked back across the room before he could get a syllable out.

“You knew who I was.”

Each word struck like a dropped match.

“You knew about my immunity. You knew about my mom.”

She took a step to the side—then another, shoes dragging on the tile as if they could erase the ground between them. Her pacing wasn’t random. It was a charge, a storm looking for where to break.

“And you still sent Lev—Lev—and people I didn’t even know across the whole fucking country with a smile and a pitch like this was some goddamn science fair.”

The last words came out sharp, almost mocking. Her mouth curled bitterly. She could hear it—Lev’s calm voice, the way he’d said her name like it still meant something. How it hadn’t made sense until now. Until this.

Her shoes struck the ground louder as she turned, walking a slow half-loop across the room, refusing to look at Ethan again. Not yet.

“You could’ve sent a letter,” she threw behind her. “You could’ve told me something real. Anything.”

Her throat tightened.

“But instead you sent someone I almost killed… with a message wrapped in memories I don’t even fucking own.”

That last part—don’t own—landed harder than the rest.

It was more than anger. It was grief. An ache buried too long, dragging itself to the surface.

She stopped mid-stride. Planted her feet. Turned.

Eyes locked on him. Her jaw clenched so tight it ached.

Her voice dropped low—dead serious.

“Tell me why the fuck I’m here.”

Ethan didn’t answer right away.

He just sat there, behind the desk, hands slowly folding together—no panic, no scrambling. Like he was used to weathering storms. Like he knew that anything said too fast would only feed the fire in front of him.

So he waited.

Let the room hold it.

Let her anger burn off its sharpest edge in the silence.

The only sound was Ellie’s breathing—too fast, too tight, like her lungs were fighting her own ribs.

Then, finally, in a voice low and even, he spoke.

“You deserve more than what I can give you in one conversation.”

His tone wasn’t rehearsed. It wasn’t clever. Just true.

“But I’ll tell you everything I know,” he added. “I promise.”

Then a pause—measured, gentle.

“Just… not all at once.”

His eyes, which had lingered on her hands before, flicked up to her face—not to challenge, but to meet her.

“And not with your fists clenched like that.”

No smugness. No teasing. Just observation, quiet and unthreatening.

Not trying to win. Just trying to meet her where she stood.

And somehow, that made the words land deeper.

Ellie exhaled.

It wasn’t relief—it was release. A fraction of the fire uncurling inside her ribs, tightening instead into something smaller, heavier. The kind of burn that doesn’t lash out anymore—it just settles.

She looked at the chair, then back at him.

Still watching.

Still wary.

Then she dropped into it—not lazily, not comfortably. Like it was a tactical decision. Like she was still on patrol, and this was just lower ground. Her arms stayed crossed, one leg bouncing in slow, silent agitation. She didn’t blink.

Ethan rubbed his short beard with the back of his knuckles, thumb resting briefly near his mouth in thought.

Searching.

Not dodging. Just… choosing his footing carefully.

“I didn’t know how to begin,” he said after a long breath. His voice held no edge. Just the kind of fatigue that comes with too many memories stacked behind a door.

“When I heard you came back with the team, I…” He hesitated—not out of guilt, but honesty. “I was stunned.”

He didn’t look at her like she was sacred. Or like she was a problem. He looked like someone seeing the full weight of something he’d only read about.

“I hoped you’d agreed to come. That it was your choice.”

Another beat, gentler now.

“So I could meet Anna’s daughter.”

Then, quietly, a second name—tender in a way that asked for nothing:

“My long-lost lab partner’s daughter.”

Ellie didn’t react.

Not to the softness in his voice.

She kept her posture rigid, jaw still tense.

But Ethan continued anyway—slow, careful, like someone navigating cracked glass.

“Abigail told me about you,” he said. “That you were immune. Fully.”

He didn’t say the girl who’s immune. Didn’t say the myth. Just… you.

“And as someone who’s spent most of my life studying what this fungus does to the brain, to the blood, to the lungs…”

He trailed off for half a second—not for effect, but because the truth of it still shook him.

“I had to meet you.”

There was no awe in it. No reverence.

Just necessity. Purpose.

He reached across the desk and turned a small picture frame so it faced her. Wooden, plain. The kind you’d find in an old classroom or a forgotten hallway.

“It’s only when Abigail saw that picture,” Ethan said, fingers brushing the edge, “and asked why I had a photo of you, that I started asking questions.”

Ellie blinked—confused, then tense.

She leaned forward cautiously and took the frame in both hands, as if it might break under her touch.

A woman smiled back at her.

Blonde. Sun-warmed. Standing on a wooden deck washed in gold light—somewhere coastal. Somewhere peaceful.

Santa Catalina.

Her breath caught, just for a second.

It was her.

Not her, but… close enough to hurt.

Her mind stalled. For a beat, she thought she was looking at herself—maybe older, maybe better lit. The kind of self she only saw in dreams or drawings that never quite landed. But then the mouth was too soft, the shoulders too square. Not her.

Her.

Anna.

Her mother.

Younger than Ellie imagined. Stronger in the eyes. Softer in the mouth. Alive in a way that only photos ever caught.

Ellie stared.

Couldn’t stop.

“She thought it was you,” Ethan said, his voice dropping to something closer to memory than explanation. “The resemblance is… uncanny.”

Ellie didn’t want to see it.

She wanted to say it wasn’t her. That the cheekbones were off. The smile too careful. The eyes too tired.

But the longer she stared, the worse it got. Not because it wasn’t her mother—
—but because it was.

And because it looked too much like the version of herself she never got to be.

Her grip on the frame tightened. She should’ve thrown it back. Should’ve laughed. Should’ve called it a trick—some photo swiped from the past to manipulate her into trust.

But she couldn’t look away.

Her chest burned like she’d swallowed something sharp. Like guilt. Or hope. Or both.

He didn’t sound amazed.

He sounded haunted.

Ellie’s voice broke through the hush—not a shout, but a blade drawn clean.

“So you knew my mom—” her jaw worked hard around the word mom, “—and now I’m immune, and that’s enough to drag me across the country?”

Her tone stayed sharp. But underneath it, something cracked. Not enough to bleed. Just enough to tremble.

Ethan sat still.

Didn’t move.

Ellie almost thought he hadn’t heard her, until she realized he was still watching her fists.

Not her eyes. Not her scar.

Her fists.

Like he was waiting for them to loosen before saying something she might not run from.

Ethan didn’t react with defense. Or pity. Just a soft, understanding nod.

“You’re right to ask that,” he said, voice low. “Why you.”

He didn’t move quickly. Just circled the desk with quiet purpose and approached the box he'd carried in. The way his hand rested on the lid, like he’d done it a hundred times but never in front of her, gave Ellie pause.

Then he opened it with slow fingers, brushing away dust he hadn’t allowed anyone else to touch.

When he lifted the photo album out, his thumb lingered on the corner.

Like it remembered the texture.

Like part of him still expected Anna to take it back from his hands.

He placed it on the desk in front of Ellie and opened it to the first page—

—and exhaled through his nose like he’d forgotten he was holding his breath.

The sound of cardboard scraping felt loud in the stillness.

“Anna and I worked together for years,” he began. Not rehearsed—remembered. “She was a nurse. Sharp. Intuitive.”

He didn’t embellish it. Didn’t sanctify her.

He just told the truth.

“She was obsessed with understanding things,” he continued, lifting a thick photo album from the box, setting it gently on the desk like something sacred. “And not from reports. Not from secondhand findings. She needed to see it.”

He turned the album slowly, let the first few pages fall open. Ellie glimpsed photos—black and white, colored, some clinical, some strangely beautiful.

“She took pictures of everything,” he said. “Microscopic growths. Infected wounds. Blooming spores on dead tissue. The kinds of things most people couldn’t look at twice.”

He gave a soft, breathless laugh—barely there.

“She had a habit of turning horror into evidence.”

His fingers brushed the corner of the page. Not wistfully. Just gently. Like he still respected what she captured.

Ellie stayed silent.

Because there was something hollow curling under her ribs.

He knew her.

Knew the cadence of her thoughts. The way her curiosity worked. The heat of her frustration, probably. Maybe the sound of her laugh.

More than Ellie ever did.

And that thought—

It hurt like a bruise from the inside out.

He placed the photo album in front of Ellie with both hands, careful not to let it slide or thud.

The cover was scuffed and sun-faded, the edges worn to fray. Dust clung to the corners, fine like ash. A threadbare elastic band had once held it shut, now long since slack.

The first page was already curling slightly at the edges—photographs pressed into the paper with handwritten notes lined down the margins. Not typed. Not formal. Just ink on old paper. Rushed. Sharp. Focused.

Ellie leaned forward before she realized she was doing it.

The handwriting was small. Tight. Familiar.

It was the same script from the letter she'd carried for years.

Her throat went tight.

A photo caught her eye—cordyceps spiraling out of a rat’s skull, but lit in such a way it looked almost like coral. Beside it: a close-up of fungal growth inside human lung tissue, annotated in the same ink. Clear, brutal, honest.

Not horror.

Documentation.

“If you really are immune…” Ethan said softly, not lifting his eyes from the book, “…and your mother was the one who taught me how to study the cordyceps without destroying everything it touched…”

He paused.

Only then did he look at her.

“…then maybe you and I could finish what she started.”

The words didn’t hang like a command. They rested between them. Offered, not pushed.

He met her gaze—not with challenge, but invitation.

“Not by cutting you open,” he said. “Not by making you a cure.”

A breath.

“But by finally figuring out how to live with it.”

Then, quieter still:

“That’s why I sent for you.”

Ellie stared at him.

Her jaw clenched. Her breath was thin—measured—but her chest was still rising fast, like her body didn’t trust what her ears were hearing.

Then she leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing, voice sharpening.

“But you knew I was here.”

Each word deliberate.

“For a week.”

The space between them felt colder now. Not from distance. From disappointment.

“You had people watching me. So why the fuck did you wait?”

The words struck like a backhand. Not screamed—but dangerous all the same.

Ethan didn’t wince.

Didn’t deflect.

He folded his hands gently on the desk again, eyes steady.

“Because I didn’t want to meet you empty-handed.”

His tone wasn’t clever. Wasn’t composed in some sterile lab. It was the kind of answer that had been chewed over quietly, alone.

His hand went still for a moment over the box.

Then he reached inside, slower than before.

When he pulled the dog tag out, he turned it over once in his palm before placing it gently on the album.

Like he couldn’t let go without feeling it again.

The metal clicked against the paper.

Ellie’s gaze dropped.

She read it in a single breath.

ANNA JOHNSON

Her stomach twisted.

She didn’t show it. Not fully.

Just scoffed—a sound meant to bite, to reclaim ground.

“You think a dog tag makes this better?”

Ethan didn’t nod. Didn’t push it forward.

He simply shook his head.

Quiet. Certain.

“I wasn’t just looking for Anna’s things.”

His fingers moved back to the desk edge, holding it like a rail on a ship that wouldn’t stop rocking.

“I sent a team to Salt Lake City,” he said. “Around the same time Levi and the others went to meet you.”

That made Ellie still.

The room held its breath with her.

Her fingers twitched once against the fabric of her jeans, just beneath the table.

“I needed to recover what was left of the Firefly data from St. Mary’s,” Ethan said, his voice dipping lower now, like the name still had gravity. “Records. Notes. Research logs. Everything they archived before the collapse.”

St. Mary’s.

The words struck somewhere in Ellie’s chest she didn’t want to name. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But her pulse quickened.

Ethan paused—just long enough for collapse to linger in the air like smoke. Just long enough for Ellie to feel the weight of a word that had less to do with infrastructure and more to do with what was taken from her.

“I didn’t want to rely on rumor,” he continued. “Or memory. Or assumption.”

His gaze returned to her—steady, direct. No pity in it. No calculation.

“I wanted to understand what they saw in you…”

A pause.

“…and what they missed.”

Ellie shifted slightly in her seat. Barely perceptible. But it was there—a twitch in her shoulders. A tension behind her eyes. Like she was holding her breath in her bones.

Her mouth curled—not a smile. Never a smile.

Just a bitter twist.

Her voice came out low, flat, and practiced:

“So you didn’t come see me because you were waiting on homework?”

The sarcasm had an edge to it. Dry. Hardened. Like a blade that had been sharpened too many times just to keep from rusting.

But beneath it was something else.

Old grief. That familiar sting behind her ribs. The one that whispered: they always choose data over you.

That she was still an object of study, even in kindness.

That no one had ever just shown up for her.

Ethan didn’t flinch. Didn’t retreat. His voice remained calm—not indulgent. Just… real.

“I was waiting,” he said, “because I didn’t want to treat you like a myth.”

The words landed with a soft, weighted thud.

“You’ve been used enough, Ellie.”

And the way he said it—her name, like it belonged to her—hit harder than she expected. There was no reverence in it. No danger. Just acknowledgment.

“I didn’t want to be the next one who looked at you and saw a miracle instead of a person.”

Ellie looked at him then—not soft, not open—but as if testing. Watching for the moment the truth would twist. Waiting for the turn. The condition. The cost.

And when it didn’t come…

She didn’t speak.

She just looked away again.

Because hearing what she always needed to hear—

Now, from him—

Almost made it worse.

Ethan’s voice softened—not out of pity, but because the moment called for it.

“I know it’s a lot,” he said. “For anyone.”

A pause, quiet as a held breath.

“Let alone someone walking into it alone.”

He didn’t move closer. He just took a slow step back and nodded gently toward the open box resting beside the album.

“The box… it’s yours,” he added. “It belonged to your mother.”

Another beat.

“Which means, in every way that matters, it belongs to you.”

Ellie didn’t speak.

Didn’t look at him.

Ellie didn’t move.

The box sat between them like it knew more than either of them were ready for.

She eyed it the way she used to eye unopened letters back in Jackson—like bad news might explode out the moment she lifted the lid.

It looked too clean. Too sealed. Like it hadn’t been touched in years.

She flexed her fingers. Then curled them tight again.

Her brain told her to step forward. But her body remembered what it meant to open things you couldn’t close again.

Joel used to say that curiosity was the quickest way to bleed.

Ellie took half a step, stopped.
“This is really hers?”
Her voice didn’t sound like hers. Not at first.

Her eyes stayed locked on the cardboard edges, the way one corner had softened from age, like someone had run their thumb along it once too many times.

She stood.

Slow. Careful.

Like any sudden movement might undo the moment.

She approached the box like it was something sacred. Dangerous. Holy.

Her fingers hovered above the lip, the air above it warmer than she expected.

Inside, nestled between cloth and paper, something pale caught her eye.

She reached in—not fast—and pulled out a piece of fabric.

White. Folded. Smooth. Not dusty. Not yellowed. Preserved.

Ellie unfolded it just enough to see the sleeves, the collar, the weight of it.

A lab coat.

Not a hospital one. Not institutional. This was personal—sturdy but worn, edges softened by time.

She frowned, throat tightening.

“All this was hers?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

Ethan’s answer came softly.

“Everything came from her quarters after she left. I kept them sealed.”

Ellie turned the coat in her hands, fingers brushing the inside seam. Something caught her eye near the breast pocket. She leaned closer.

Stitched into the fabric—faded, but still intact:

A. Johnson

The letters hit harder than they should have. Not because of what they said.

But because of what they confirmed.

A name.

A name she never got to say out loud.

She swallowed, lifting the coat to eye level like it might speak if she held it just right.

“Was this hers too?” she asked, the question catching halfway through her throat.

“She wore it during our work,” Ethan said. “Said she hated the sterile ones. Always brought her own.”

Ellie nodded once. Almost imperceptible.

Then, slowly, she pressed the coat to her chest.

Not to try it on.

Not to hold it like a child.

But to feel the weight of it. The memory in it. The heat that had once lived inside it.

She didn’t say thank you.

Didn’t soften.

She didn’t know if she was clinging to it or if it was clinging to her.

The lab coat wasn’t heavy, but it grounded her. Like roots pressing down through her ribs.

Like someone had loved her once and folded the proof away for safekeeping.

“I’ll take the box.”

Ethan didn’t respond.

He just watched as she stood there, eyes lowered to fabric stitched with a name she barely remembered… and somehow never forgot. And for the first time in a very long time, he didn’t look like a scientist.

He looked like someone trying not to grieve out loud.

Eventually, she looked back at Ethan once—guarded, but no longer burning.

___

Later that night, the cabin was quiet.

The kind of quiet that felt too still to breathe in.

Ellie shut the door behind her without thinking, her fingers already curled tight around the box. She didn’t turn on the light. She didn’t need to. The moon cast just enough glow through the window to trace her path across the room.

She placed the box on the desk like it weighed more than it did. Maybe it did.

Her fingers hesitated at the lid.

Then opened it.

Inside, right on top, was the dog tag.

Simple.

Scuffed.

Worn smooth at the edges by time and contact.

She picked it up gently, let it rest in her palm.

The chain pooled like silver thread across her skin.

ANNA JOHNSON

Her mother’s name.

Not scribbled at the bottom of a letter. Not whispered by someone too afraid to say more. But engraved. Solid. Real.

She stared at it for a long moment.

Then, without thinking, she slipped the chain over her head.

It rested cold against her collarbone. Heavy in a way that felt right.

Like it belonged there.

Like she had belonged to someone, once.

Her breath shook.

She reached back into the box, slower this time. Her hands found the white coat folded neatly along the bottom. She lifted it out like a relic, the sleeves limp, the fabric cool to the touch.

She sat down slow, the way she used to lower herself into Joel’s chair back on the porch—half-expecting it to creak under memory, not weight. The bed didn’t move. But her chest did. Unsteady. Uncertain.

Her fingers traced the stitched name over the pocket—A. Johnson. Still there. Still her.

She stared at it like it might shift, like it might betray her if she blinked.

Then she pulled it close and raised it to her face.

And breathed.

Iodine.
Bleach.
Something sweeter—like old lotion, rubbed into worn palms.

Her brain sputtered.

A woman’s laugh—cut off mid-sentence. A shadow moving past a nursery door. The weight of someone’s hand, steady against a fevered forehead.

“She’s strong. She’ll make it.”

Marlene’s voice? No.

Someone else.
A breathy hum. A sway. The ghost of being rocked.

A warmth that belonged to no one, and somehow still hurt to remember.

Salt. Soap. Paper. Skin.
A trace of something burnt—coffee left on a burner too long. Faint iodine. The scent of ink.

Not strong. Not clear. But enough to feel like her cells remembered it, even if her mind never could.

A scent long faded, but something still lingered. Not strong. Not sharp. Just…

Warm breath on skin. A hospital hallway. The sound of Marlene’s boots, pacing.

“Your mom loved you,” she’d said. But it never sounded real.

Now—this did.

Her shoulders trembled.

The ache hit low. Deep. Quiet.

She hadn’t expected her body to react this way—like her chest remembered something her brain didn’t.

A softness. A weight.

Like when she held JJ’s blanket against her face, trying to guess what Dina smelled when she rocked him to sleep.

This wasn’t that.

But it was close.

Like something she’d been starving for without ever knowing what she was missing.

The tears came slow. Silent.

They didn’t rush out of her—they fell. Like they'd been waiting.

She didn’t wipe them away.

Didn’t curse them.

For the first time in years, she didn’t fight them at all.

She just sat there, clutching what her mother had once worn.

Her throat caught.

A laugh. She didn’t know whose. Riley’s? Hers?

“Think she was funny?” Riley had asked once.

“No idea,” Ellie had said.

But maybe now, maybe a little. The coat smelled like someone who asked too many questions. Who wrote too small and laughed too loud and kept chapstick in her left coat pocket because the air on Catalina was always too dry.

Maybe she was funny. Maybe she stayed up late arguing with Ethan over spores and dosage limits. Maybe she talked in her sleep. Ellie would never know.

But this coat, it knew. And maybe that was enough.

The coat smelled like someone who didn’t rush things.

Like someone who looked, and noticed, and stayed. And held on.

And maybe, for tonight, that was all Ellie needed to believe.

Just that someone stayed.

Even if they couldn’t anymore.

Chapter Text

A few days had passed since she met Ethan.

The box still sat by the window. Some mornings, it caught a sliver of light that made the edges glow, like it might be holy. Other days, like today, it just looked like a grave someone had forgotten to bury.

Ellie hadn’t touched it again. Not since the first time. Not since her hands found the shirt—folded, soft, still holding a shape that wasn’t hers. Not since she saw the sketchbook, small and half-used, the kind of thing you carried in a pocket not because it was useful, but because it was yours. The pencil beside it had a bite mark at the end. Like Anna had tried to draw something and failed. Or couldn’t stop herself from trying.

There were a few strands of hair caught in the stitching of the elastic. Blonde. Faintly curled. It shouldn’t have meant anything. But it did.

She wore the dog tag now.

Hadn’t taken it off since the moment she clasped it behind her neck. It hung cold against her chest like a weight she didn’t know she needed. Something real. Something old. Something that once touched skin like hers.

The cabin was still. Air thick with the silence that followed too many thoughts. Ellie sat at the edge of her bed, hoodie sleeves covering the palms of her hands. She stared down at the floor. Her boots were untied. One sock had a hole in the toe. Her toes curled against the wood, trying to remember what warmth used to feel like.

She didn’t move right away.

Just sat. Let the dull ache in her legs tell her time was passing. Let her mind wander far enough that she almost didn’t notice the hunger until her stomach twisted on itself.

She got up. Slow.

Layered the flannel. Pulled the hoodie on top. Slid the Beretta into place like a secret. The switchblade clicked into her back pocket. She tied her boots like it mattered.

Then she stepped outside.

The sky was the kind that threatened rain without delivering. The clouds hung low and unmoving, thick as cement. The wind tasted like the ocean—metallic, briny, old. People were already moving about the base. Quiet. Unhurried. Like everyone was trying not to wake the dead.

She kept her head down, hands in her sleeves, and walked.

The mess hall was half-full. She didn’t recognize anyone’s face. She didn’t try to.

The food was hot, barely. She ate like she always did now—fast, mechanically, not because she was hungry but because her body would punish her if she didn’t. When she finished, she set the bowl in the bin and slipped out through the side door, letting it shut behind her with a soft metal sigh.

The cold hit her face. Sharp. Welcome.

She didn’t stop at the fence. No one stopped her. There was no posted guard. Just the soft weight of assumption—no one’s dumb enough to wander off alone.

Ellie stepped past it anyway.

Her boots hit the path like they remembered it. Gravel, packed mud, the overgrown fringe of where the base stopped pretending to be civilized. She didn’t have a plan. Her body just moved. Like it knew something before she did.

And then it came.

That sensation. Not a memory. Not a thought.

A tug.

Low. In her ribs. In her back teeth.

The kind of feeling that used to hit her right before something went wrong. The kind that told her when a patrol was about to turn. When someone was watching from the trees. When a floorboard in an old house didn’t belong.

Her pace slowed. Her hand brushed near her thigh—not to draw. Just to feel it. The steel. The option.

Her eyes scanned the road now. The cracks in the asphalt. The sloping ditch overrun with vines. A crow in the distance flapped upward without sound. No screams. No scent of rot. No obvious danger.

Still.

Her breath changed.

She didn’t breathe deeper. Just... quieter.

She crested a ridge that opened into an old service road, barely visible now through the overgrowth.

And there it was.

The airport.

At least what was left of one.

Fence twisted down by trees, hangars collapsing into themselves. A control tower in the distance, spine cracked, like someone tried to lift it and failed. The wind pushed across the tarmac with a sound like dragging chains.

Ellie stopped.

Something about it made her chest go still.

It looked abandoned. Silent. Swallowed by time.

But something beneath the silence felt... held.

Like a breath not yet released.

She took one step forward.

Then another.

Her boot landed on a patch of loose gravel. The sound barely carried.

Her hand hovered near her pistol. Still not drawn. Just there. Just ready.

She passed through a gap in the fence. The wire hissed softly as it shifted under her hoodie.

Beyond it, the hangar loomed.

Tall. Hollow. Open-jawed.

She didn’t pause.

She ducked beneath the broken edge of its rusting frame.

And the shadows swallowed her whole.

The inside of the hangar was cold and quiet. Not empty—just forgotten.

Ellie’s boots landed soft against the concrete floor, gritty with dust and broken glass. A crow’s feather lay curled near the entrance, caught in the shallow drift of air that made its way through a high, broken panel above.

She didn’t move far in at first.

Just stopped and listened.

Her hand hovered near the grip of her gun. Her eyes traced the space in slow, methodical sweeps.

A plane carcass loomed to her left—wing half-detached, its nose buried in the corner like it was ashamed to be seen like this. Rust curled down its flanks like ivy. One of the wheels was snapped at the joint, rubber peeled away.

She took a slow step forward.

Then another.

The metal walls groaned faintly with the wind. Distant. Dull. Not threatening. Just... the sound of something old still shifting in its sleep.

Ellie swept right first. Eyes moving across shadows. Her fingers brushed against a metal support beam, catching flakes of rust. Her breath came low through her nose, tight and measured.

She passed a collapsed scaffolding, a stack of old crates with military markings so faded they were unreadable. A mess of straps and tarp lay scattered nearby, half-covered in mold. Raccoon prints dotted one corner, dried and old.

Still no smell of rot.

Still no blood.

Still... something.

She moved again.

Her path cut through the open center where sunlight streamed in through holes in the roof, angling across the floor in dusty shafts. It lit the space in patches—just enough to keep her wary. Just enough to make her feel watched.

She passed another downed fuselage. A ladder lay beneath it, its rungs bent and slick with age. Above, in the cockpit, vines spilled through the window like veins ruptured under skin.

What were they trying to escape from?

That thought slipped in before she could stop it.

She didn’t answer it.

She took a breath instead.

Let it out slow.

No movement.

No breathing that wasn’t hers.

She lowered her hand from her pistol—but didn’t stray far from it.

There was an alcove to her right, where the edge of the hangar collapsed inward at a slant. She edged toward it, checking corners first. Her feet made almost no sound now, trained from years of not surviving so much as avoiding.

A toppled luggage cart rusted in place. Beside it, a broken display rack for tourist maps still clung to one laminated page. Most of the ink had bled off, but she could still make out a faded logo—some kind of coastal wing and sun, promising warmth that never came.

She crouched briefly, ran her hand along the edge of a broken locker door. It peeled back with a reluctant creak, but inside was nothing. Not even dust.

Still no signs of infected.

Still no nests. No remains.

But the quiet felt too complete.

Like someone had scrubbed the place clean and then walked out without leaving the door open.

Ellie stood again.

Her body was still tight. But not alarmed.

Just... alert.

Like something in her had clocked the place, and—while it didn’t trust it—it was willing to stop drawing breath like every second might be its last.

She passed one last set of crates stacked haphazardly near the wall and—

She stopped.

Mid-step.

Eyes fixed ahead.

There it was.

A guitar.

Resting against the wall like someone had left it only yesterday. Crooked. Dull. Its wood once warm, now the color of old paper soaked through with time. The strings hung loose. One of the tuning pegs was snapped clean off. A split ran down the side of the neck—just hairline, but deep enough to make it feel fragile.

Ellie didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe for a second.

It wasn’t the kind Joel used to play, not exactly. The shape was a little rounder, the finish darker. But something in the way it sat—unguarded, forgotten—made her chest go still.

Her boots stayed rooted in place.

The wind pushed gently through the hangar’s bones, rattling something metal in the rafters. A gull cried once in the far-off sky. But none of it reached her.

She stared.

Like the guitar might speak first.

She didn’t want to move toward it. Not because she was scared of what she’d find—but because she already knew what she wouldn’t.

It wouldn’t sound right.

It wouldn’t be the same.

It wouldn’t be hers.

Still, her fingers itched. Not to play—just to touch. Just to make sure it was real. That it wasn’t something conjured up from exhaustion, from grief, from that quiet ache that never really left her since the moment she dropped her own on the floor of that cabin. Since she walked away from that farmhouse and told herself not to look back.

She shifted her weight, the creak of her boot on the concrete the only sound.

One step.

Then another.

Every footfall felt like it took her closer to something buried.

Joel’s voice echoed somewhere low in the back of her mind. Not words. Just that gentle, almost humming cadence he used to fall into when he tuned his own guitar—fingers worn, eyes soft, lost in thought.

She remembered watching him the first time, too afraid to ask to try.

And then later, the way he showed her. The way his hands guided hers. The patience.

The hope.

She swallowed hard, throat dry.

Half of her wanted to leave it there. Let it rot. Let it break the rest of the way.

The other half?

She didn’t know what it wanted.

Maybe to sit. Maybe to try.

Maybe to pretend, for five minutes, that the sound would still come.

That her hands could still make something whole.

But even thinking that hurt.

And hurt, she was used to. But hope—hope was worse.

She took another step.

Then crouched.

Slow. Careful. Like she might startle it. Like it might disappear if she moved too fast.

Up close, the damage was clearer. Dust caked the frets. The strings sagged like overworked nerves. A small burn mark darkened the edge near the bridge—maybe from a campfire. Maybe from someone who didn’t know how to hold it right.

Ellie stared at it.

Her fingers hovered just above the neck, not touching yet.

Then, without deciding to, she sat. Her back found the wall, knees bent slightly, the cold of the concrete seeping through her jeans.

The hangar felt quieter now.

Not safer.

Just... still.

She reached out.

Her palm brushed the body first—rough and cool, like old wood that had been waiting for too long. Her hand settled over it with a strange kind of familiarity. A shape her body remembered even if her mind tried not to.

She lifted it into her lap.

It wasn’t heavy.

But it landed like it was.

Her arms folded around it naturally, automatically, the way they had a hundred times before. The way they hadn’t in over a year. Her left hand slid to the fretboard. Her right hovered over the strings.

And that’s when the ache came.

Not sudden. Not sharp.

Just there.

Like a weight in her chest pressing slow and steady into the hollow space where something used to live.

Her thumb stroked the strings once. They made a sound, but it wasn’t music. Just a rasp. A crooked hum warped from time and neglect.

She tried again.

Still no song.

Still no shape.

Her fingers moved into position—at least, the ones she had left. She tried to form a chord. The old one. The first one. The one Joel had shown her with a smirk and a low “There you go.”

But the shape didn’t come.

Her hand twitched. Adjusted. Compensated.

It didn’t matter.

The chord wasn’t there anymore.

Her fingers didn’t have the reach. The notes didn’t land.

It was like trying to remember a dream with only half your mouth.

Ellie’s chest tightened.

She looked down at her left hand. At what was missing. At what her mind kept pretending was still there.

She pressed harder into the fretboard, as if willing the sound to return.

But it didn’t.

It couldn’t.

She sat still.

Letting the silence close back in.

Letting the ghosts find their way back to her shoulders.

She didn’t cry.

Not yet.

But the burning was there.

In her throat. In her fingertips.

In that space just under the sternum where memory lived when it didn’t know where else to go.

She closed her eyes.

Held the guitar tighter.

Let the weight of it settle into her lap like something she wasn’t sure she deserved anymore.

And for a moment, she wasn’t Ellie the immune girl. Or Ellie the soldier. Or Ellie the one who didn’t save anyone.

She was just a kid who used to play.

Used to try.

Used to dream she might be something more than what the world made her.

The next breath she took hurt.

Then—

A sound.

Not from the guitar.

Not from her.

But from the shadows behind her.

A scrape.

Low.

Slow.

Alive.

The sound came again.

A scrape. Soft. Not far.

Ellie’s eyes snapped open.

She didn’t move at first.

Didn’t breathe.

Just listened.

It could’ve been metal shifting. Could’ve been a tarp catching the wind. Could’ve been the building sighing under its own weight.

But it didn’t feel like any of that.

It felt deliberate.

The kind of sound that happened just once—then vanished.

Her grip on the guitar loosened.

Carefully, quietly, she slid it off her lap and set it down beside her. It didn’t clatter. Didn’t even creak. It rested like it understood this wasn’t the time.

Her hand moved behind her, fingers curling around the familiar curve of the switchblade—then shifting forward to the Beretta.

The metal was cold against her palm. Comforting.

The air felt heavier now. Every draft of wind carried a question.

She didn’t look around yet. Didn’t bolt upright.

She’d learned better.

Instead, she waited.

Still as the crates beside her. Still as the dead things in the walls.

Let her body adjust.

Her heart was beating faster now, but not wildly. It beat in rhythm. Survival rhythm. The one that whispered: Don’t think. Listen.

She swallowed the tightness in her throat and slowly stood, knees bent slightly, weight balanced forward. Her left hand hovered just below her holster. Her right tightened around the grip.

The scrape hadn’t repeated.

That was worse.

A second sound could’ve meant something small. An animal. Wind.

But just one?

One meant someone trying not to make two.

Ellie turned her head—just enough to sweep her peripheral.

Nothing.

No movement.

But her gut had already changed.

The weight in her lower belly shifted. The same cold coil she felt before firefights. Before traps. Before the bite.

She scanned again. Upward. Toward the beams.

To the corner where the shadows ran deepest.

Then slowly, like peeling herself from the world she’d allowed herself to rest in, she began to move.

Not fast.

Sharp.

Her boots rolled heel to toe in practiced silence. Her breath slowed. She made her way along the wall, eyes cutting across the hangar one angle at a time.

The part of her that had held the guitar—the Ellie who wrote songs in a farmhouse and let a toddler touch the strings—had already disappeared behind her ribs, locked down, folded small.

This was the other Ellie now.

The one who survived Seattle.

The one who slit throats without blinking.

The one who knew how to read the air like a map.

And right now, the air was telling her: you’re not alone.

She moved toward the sound’s origin.

Each step was measured, knees slightly bent, posture low. The weight of the Beretta in her hand grounded her. The hangar didn’t breathe now—it held its breath. Like it was waiting to see what she would do next.

Ellie’s eyes swept the floor as she curved toward the back wall, where the shadows deepened into broken geometry—half-crushed crates, a collapsed strut, rusted racks leaning at unnatural angles. A crawl of light bled through the upper rafters, just enough to make silhouettes out of clutter.

She paused beside a downed support beam.

Tilted her head.

Listened.

The scrape hadn’t repeated. But something else had shifted.

The scent.

Not rot.

Not blood.

But leather. Wet.

Like someone who hadn’t dried off fully. Like someone who had sweated recently.

Ellie took one more step and crouched.

Her eyes narrowed to the ground in front of her, tracing the scattered debris—dust, bits of soot, the crushed remains of a thermos half-buried in the grit.

And there it was.

A print.

Fresh.

Pressed into the thin layer of soot near a puddle that hadn’t fully dried.

Not hers.

Too big. Deeper at the heel.

A small drag behind it. Like someone crouched or paused with a weight on one leg.

She moved her fingers toward it without thinking, hovering just above the edge. She didn’t touch it. Didn’t need to. The moisture still clung at the sides. No dust had settled over it.

New.

Her lips parted slightly, breath shallow now. Not from fear. From confirmation.

Someone had been here.

Someone might still be.

She lifted her eyes slowly, scanning the direction the boot was pointed.

Toward the side of the hangar where the loading bay used to open. Its doors were mostly collapsed now, one half bent inward like a mouth with broken teeth. Behind it, a narrow stretch of shadow cut across the floor like a throat waiting to be slit.

She didn’t move into it yet.

Instead, she took two quiet steps along the edge, circling wide to get a better angle. Her shoulder brushed a broken pipe, flaking rust onto her sleeve.

Then—

Another faint scuff.

To her right.

Behind a broken support wing.

She froze.

Didn’t aim.

Didn’t speak.

Just adjusted her stance.

And waited.

She stayed still.

One breath.

Two.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the grip of the pistol, joints quiet, practiced. Her other hand hovered near her ribs, close enough to balance her movement, steady her draw if she had to move fast.

But nothing came.

No charge.

No whisper.

No footsteps.

Just that same heavy stillness pressing in from all sides.

The kind of silence that had weight. That pooled in corners. That wrapped itself around her ears and made her heartbeat feel too loud.

The air was thicker here. Like it had stopped circulating. Like it was holding its breath with her.

She adjusted her stance, letting her heel roll softly as she stepped around a crumpled tarp. Her eyes flicked upward toward the bent beams where a rain gutter once hung—now dangling like a snapped tendon.

Still no movement.

But the feeling in her gut was worse now.

Tighter.

Like she’d walked into something someone else had only just left.

She scanned again—right, then left, then down.

And there—just the edge of it—

A flicker.

A shadow moving against a deeper shadow.

Gone before she could place it.

No sound. No form.

Just motion.

Her breath caught—but didn’t break. Her jaw set.

She didn’t flinch.

She pivoted.

Quiet. Fast. Low.

Her pistol lifted just a few inches higher. No shaking. No hesitation. Her muscles moved like she'd trained for this moment since the first time she didn’t check behind a door fast enough.

She didn’t call out.

Didn’t say hello.

Didn’t say come out.

This wasn’t a negotiation.

This was a decision.

Her eyes locked on the space where the movement had disappeared—between a fallen engine stand and the far wall, near the torn remnants of an emergency tarp flapping faintly in the draft.

No sound.

No echo.

Just that same oppressive quiet, thick enough to choke on.

Ellie shifted her weight forward.

And in a single smooth motion, she moved.

Swift. Sharp. Toward the source.

Her pistol raised.

Shoulders square.

Eyes narrowed.

She’d flush them.

Or whatever was pretending not to be there.

She rounded the last stack of crates in a low arc, breath held, gun forward.

The corner was tight—metal scaffolding pressed in on both sides, a dense cluster of shadows between the fallen wing and the loading dock wall. Torn tarp. Broken pipe. Crushed canteen in the dirt.

She aimed into the gap.

Nothing moved.

No breath. No sound.

No figure waiting to lunge.

Just... space.

Ellie stood frozen for a second longer than necessary.

Then stepped in.

Cleared the corner with the barrel of her pistol. Checked the angles.

The tarp shifted slightly in the wind, dragging across the concrete like a body being pulled.

She reached out with her foot and kicked it back.

Underneath: nothing.

Just a patch of disturbed dust. An old pack strap. And—

Boot prints.

Her heart gave one low thud.

The prints were fresher here. Clearer. The shape deeper, the edge of one smeared as if someone had turned quickly or stumbled in the tight space.

And then gone.

No trail out. No next step. Just the end.

Like they’d vanished.

Or stopped walking.

Or were still nearby.

Watching.

Ellie didn’t move.

She scanned again—ceiling, vents, beams.

Still no sound.

Her stomach clenched, not from fear but from uncertainty—the worst kind. She’d rather find teeth than silence. At least you could kill teeth.

She took a step back.

Then another.

Slowly lowered her gun.

Her eyes didn’t leave the dark.

But her body had already made the decision.

Leave.

Not because it was safe.

But because it wasn’t—and she couldn’t stay long enough to find out why.

She moved fast this time.

Not running.

Not loud.

But fast.

The hangar swallowed her steps, like it wanted to keep her. She passed the guitar without looking at it, the weight of that silence twisting now into something colder. She didn’t let herself feel it. Not now.

Out the arch. Past the warped fence. Onto the road.

Only when she cleared the tree line did she let herself slow.

She walked hard.

Breath even.

Pistol still in her hand.

Every few steps, she looked back.

Nothing followed.

No sound.

No shape.

But her spine prickled.

That ancient warning she couldn’t name—not fear, not dread.

Just that pressure in the back of her head like eyes were there.

Like someone—or something—had watched her just long enough to know how she moved.

And maybe was doing it now.

Ellie kept walking.

Not fast enough to be obvious.

Not slow enough to seem confident.

Back toward the compound.

Back toward something she could name.

But with every step, her throat tightened.

Because the truth was simple.

She didn’t know if she was being followed.

Didn’t know if it was someone.

Or something.

Didn’t know if she had walked alone.

Or if whatever had been in that hangar had already taken a second path—parallel to hers, slower, quieter, better at waiting.

And that not-knowing?

That’s what stayed with her.

All the way home.

___

By the time Ellie reached the edge of the compound, the sun had shifted—casting the dirt paths in streaks of gold and steel. The wind had picked up, briny and biting, threading through her sleeves. Her hoodie clung to her back, damp with sweat she hadn’t realized she’d built.

She didn’t slow until the gate appeared, rising from the blur like something she wasn’t sure she’d reach.

Two Fireflies stood nearby. One perched on an overturned crate. The other leaned against the gatepost like the position had drained him years ago. The one on the crate straightened the second he saw her—shoulders squaring, eyes narrowing. Not alarmed. But watchful.

Cameron.
He was one of the few she could trust to notice without making it a thing.

He clocked the way she walked before anything else—quick, direct, head down, eyes sweeping. Not out of breath. But wired. Like someone who’d cut a trip short on instinct alone.

“You good?” he asked, tone steady—neutral enough not to spook her, but edged just enough to mean: what did you bring back with you?

Ellie stopped just short of the gate, brushed her hair back with the back of her hand. The Beretta on her thigh was visible, dust streaked her sleeves, one knee darkened by soot and gravel. She didn’t fidget. She didn’t blink.

“Airport’s compromised,” she said flatly. No buildup. No warning. Like dropping a stone in still water.

Cameron stood all the way up, boots thudding once on the crate. “Compromised how?” No panic. Just ready.

Ellie tilted her head, eyes narrowing against the light. “Could be a stalker,” she said. “Could be worse. I didn’t stay to count.”

The other Firefly—Jared, probably—shifted upright. His eyes flicked past Ellie, toward the tree line behind her. Like he expected something to come sprinting out of it.

“You get hit?” he asked. Not accusing. Just assessing—like a medic checking for blood.

“No.” A beat. “Not yet.”
She didn’t elaborate. Didn’t need to. Her jaw said the rest—tight, set like a hinge barely holding. Her eyes didn’t blink.

Cameron scratched the back of his neck, not out of confusion—out of calculation.
“Where?”

“Main hangar,” she said. “West side. First one with a roof still mostly intact.”

She looked at him then—expression flat, unreadable. But her voice carried just enough weight to be believed.
“I heard something. Moved like a person. Quiet. Waited me out.”

Jared muttered something under his breath—low, sharp.
“Fucking stalkers…”
It wasn’t loud. But it cut through the air like a splinter.

Cameron turned back to her. Met her gaze without blinking.
“You sure?”

“Sure enough,” Ellie said. “Fresh prints. Fabric drag. Someone crouched and waited.”
Her voice stayed low. Steady. But her eyes hadn’t softened since she walked in.

She didn’t mention the guitar.
Didn’t say how long she sat with it before the air changed.
Didn’t explain the weight in her chest when she stood and left it behind—still leaning against that hangar wall like a version of herself she couldn’t afford to carry.

Cameron let out a low curse, then turned to Jared without hesitation.
“Let Talia know. We’ll need a sweep team at first light—long guns, fire support. If it’s stalkers, they’ll dig in.”

Jared was already moving, boots kicking dust as he turned. Orders made it real.

Ellie stayed rooted to the spot, fingers twitching once before curling into a fist. Her shoulders dropped just slightly—just enough to notice. Cameron looked back at her.

“You good?” he asked, his voice quieter now. No urgency. Just checking in.

She shrugged, eyes fixed on some point past his shoulder. “Didn’t get close.”

“That’s not what I asked.” His tone didn’t change, but it landed heavier than before.

Ellie looked past him, toward the yard. People walked. Voices murmured. The wind tugged at drying clothes on a line like nothing had happened.
Like the world had already moved on. Like it hadn’t stopped just long enough for her to remember how close everything still was.

“I’m fine.”

Cameron didn’t press. Just nodded once.
“Good instincts,” he said. “You did the right thing.”

Ellie’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile.
“Didn’t feel like dying today.”

Cameron studied her a moment longer, then stepped aside and nodded her in.
“Thanks for the heads-up. Go get cleaned up. You need anything?”

Ellie hesitated. Her first instinct was to say no.
Then: “Yeah. Could use some water.”

Cameron motioned toward the canteen rack beside the shack. “Take one.”

She grabbed it, unscrewed the lid. The first sip hit cold against the back of her throat. She drank half before she even realized she was thirsty.
Wiped her mouth with her sleeve. Swallowed hard.

The tightness in her chest was still there.
But now someone else was carrying part of it.

___

By the time Ellie crossed the threshold of the inner compound, the world had softened—but not for her.

Her legs moved without asking. She followed the path past the stables, past the low murmur of voices outside the mess hall, past the clatter of a dropped mug and someone laughing like nothing in the world had teeth.

She didn’t flinch.
But her eyes didn’t stop moving.

The hangar was still behind her, but the shadow of it stayed. The silence. The almost-voice in the dark. The boot prints with no footsteps after.
It stayed in her chest like smoke.

And still—her body kept walking.

She passed the med tent. The laundry station. The corner near the greenhouse where Reid was probably tinkering with something. She didn’t register any of it, not really.
Until she was there.

Standing in front of Ethan’s door.

She blinked. Once.

She hadn’t meant to come here.

Or maybe she had.

Her hand hovered, curled loosely like a question she didn’t want to ask. The back of her knuckles brushed the grain of the wood. A knot sat low behind her ribs, tight and unmoving.

She didn’t barge in this time.

Didn’t let the silence answer for her.

Three small taps.

Not loud. Not timid.

Just enough.

A pause—too long and not long at all.

Then Ethan’s voice, warm through the door:
“Come in.”

She opened it.

Ethan stood behind his desk, glasses halfway down the bridge of his nose, eyes flicking between a set of notes and what looked like a half-unrolled map. A mug of tea steamed faintly beside him, forgotten.

He looked up the second the door opened.

And something in him shifted.

Not alarm.
Not caution.

Just… warmth.

A slow, genuine smile spread across his face—unrushed, unforced. The kind of smile that didn’t feel practiced. The kind that had been waiting.

“Ellie,” he said, her name breaking the silence like it belonged there. Not heavy. Not dramatic.

Like sunlight slipping through a cold room.

No hesitation. No surprise.
Only welcome.

She stepped in without a word, the door clicking shut behind her.

He didn’t come toward her. Didn’t fill the space between them.

Just watched her cross the room, eyes following her like someone reading something carefully, without pressure.
Like he wanted to memorize the moment but not control it.

“Good to see you,” he added, smile still warm. “Come in. Come in.”

She did, moving forward with her shoulders still squared, hood still up. Armor, soft and sewn.

As she approached his desk, her eyes caught something near the edge—a polaroid camera. Old. Scuffed. Familiar in shape, even with the scratches across the front casing. She didn’t mean to stare, but her steps slowed just half a second.

It sat like something waiting to be remembered.

She tore her gaze away before the ache could form.

“Thirsty?” Ethan asked, already halfway toward the back room. “I’ve got tea, or I can get you some water.”

“Water’s good,” Ellie said, voice clipped—but not cold. Just trimmed down to what fit.

Ethan disappeared behind the small partition that led to the kitchenette.

She stayed standing.

Her eyes moved along the room. Bookshelves worn at the edges. A row of sample jars labeled in tiny, patient handwriting. Notebooks stacked in near-perfect lines, except for one that had clearly been used that morning.

Everything had a place.

Not sterile. Not showy.

Just... intentional.

It looked nothing like the rest of the compound. Nothing like a military office.
It looked like someone had built it for thinking—and stayed because it worked.

Just as Ellie was starting to notice how long she’d been standing—how tight her shoulders had gotten, how stiff her spine felt—Ethan returned.

He moved without hurry, a clean glass in one hand, filled to the top. The water caught the light, shimmering slightly as he crossed the space.

He handed it to her gently, fingers brushing hers for just a breath. No weight behind the gesture. Just calm, lived-in kindness.

He nodded toward the armchairs in front of his desk.

She took the glass, mumbled a quiet, “Thanks,” and lowered herself into the nearest chair.

Not all at once.

Like someone easing into a bath that might still be too hot.

The seat held her. The leather was worn, warm. Her backpack settled awkwardly against the backrest, and she didn’t bother adjusting it.

The glass was cool in her hands. She didn’t drink—just held it. Let the temperature soak into her skin.

Ethan didn’t sit.

He moved behind his desk in a slow arc, pacing toward the far shelves like he wasn’t thinking about it. Like his body just needed motion while his mind turned elsewhere.

He reached for nothing. Rearranged nothing. Just stood there, facing the books and dried samples, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the shelf.

Then, without turning around, he asked—his voice low, melodic, unforced:

“What can I do for you, Love?”

The word hit softly.

Like a breeze through a crack in the wall.

Ellie didn’t flinch. Not visibly.

But something inside her did.

Love.

It slipped from him like second nature, like he said it to everyone. Like it meant nothing.

But it didn’t land like nothing.

It landed like an old name she wasn’t used to hearing anymore. A word meant for softer people. People who didn’t wake up checking for their knife.

She didn’t answer the question.

Not directly.

Instead, she took a sip of the water—just enough to delay a response—and asked,

“Where’s Hersch?”

Ethan glanced over his shoulder, the edge of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Home,” he said. “Went early. He was chasing a theory and didn’t like what he didn’t find.”

Ellie smirked faintly into her glass and took a sip. The water hit colder than she expected—clean and sharp—and her throat burned just a little from how fast she swallowed.

She hadn’t realized how dry she was.

Ethan was still moving across the room. Quiet. Methodical. His hand slid open a wooden drawer near the far shelf, then another—slow, deliberate movements without frustration.

Not searching in a rush.

Just… picking up the thread of something he’d already set in motion.

Like he knew what he wanted.
Just hadn’t seen it in a while.

Ellie let herself watch.

Her glass stayed balanced between both palms, like something breakable. Her elbows rested on the armrests now, her spine settling into the curve of the chair without her noticing.

The silence wasn’t thick between them. It wasn’t charged.
Just... there.
Something shared.

Her eyes wandered again, slower this time.

The shelves were full, but nothing was crammed. The desk, clean but clearly used. A stack of books lay near the edge, spines cracked, corners softened by time. One still open, a pen tucked into the binding like someone had left mid-thought. Old maps pinned to the wall, faded at the edges. A sprig of dried lichen hung above the narrow window, secured with a rusted pin—brittle, preserved, and somehow beautiful.

Everything in here looked like it had been touched. Like it had meant something to someone.

Nothing was sterile.
Nothing was careless.

It felt like a place built by someone who had learned how to stay.

And she sat there—still half-covered in the dust of a ruined hangar, still carrying the breath of something watching her from the dark—wondering, just briefly, what it might feel like to be in a room and not on the edge of leaving it.

Ethan moved with the kind of patience that didn’t ask for permission. Not slow. Just... unrushed.
Like he knew she wouldn’t bolt.

Not because she owed him anything—but because maybe she needed this as much as he did.

He moved from one drawer to the next—first the narrow one built into the wall, then the low cabinet tucked beside the bookcase. His fingers skimmed over cloth pouches, wooden boxes, lids worn soft with time. Every movement quiet. Casual.

He muttered softly to himself now and then—just under his breath. Not frustrated. Not filling silence. Just thinking aloud in that way people do when they trust the space they’re in.

Ellie stayed where she was.

The glass of water rested in her lap, her fingers now loose around it, not guarding it like before. Her gaze trailed after him—slow, tracking his path without urgency.

She didn’t know why she hadn’t left yet.

But maybe this was the first quiet in days that didn’t feel like a countdown.

No clock ticking behind her ears. No gut pulling her back to her feet.

Just stillness.

Then—at the last drawer, Ethan let out a quiet, pleased sound. A low hum, close to a laugh, like something small and familiar had finally turned up right where he left it.

He looked down at whatever he’d found, head tilting slightly, the corners of his mouth curling—not wide, but certain.

“Aha! Knew I didn’t lose you,” Ethan murmured, voice low but pleased.

He turned toward her, holding something small in his hand.
“Eureka,” he added with a grin—not smug, just quietly satisfied. Like the moment meant more than the object itself.

Ellie watched him cross the room and set the box down beside the polaroid she’d clocked earlier.
The tin was weathered, the lid slightly rusted, one corner dented like it had been dropped a long time ago and never apologized for. The kind of thing most people wouldn’t look at twice—unless they already knew what was inside.

Her eyes narrowed slightly.
“What is that?”

Ethan eased down into his chair across from her, his weight settling like a page being turned. His glasses slipped partway down the bridge of his nose, and he nudged them back into place with a familiar motion—like muscle memory more than thought.

He looked—oddly proud of himself.

“This was supposed to be in your mother’s box,” he said, his voice gentler now. “But I kept it out. Gave it to Reid first—figured his hands were steadier than mine.”

He tapped the side of the polaroid, the gesture soft. Almost like checking someone’s pulse.

Then he pushed the tin forward, across the desk between them.

He opened it with care—thumb sliding the lid back like he didn’t want to startle whatever lived inside.
Inside: two film cartridges wrapped in cloth, edges smoothed by time. And a folded slip of paper tucked between them. Maybe instructions. Maybe something Reid had written. Maybe something Ethan didn’t want to throw away.

“And this,” he said, quieter now, “is film for it. You load it here. Then it’s yours.”
A beat passed, but he didn’t rush the next part.
“Take pictures. Keep them. Burn them. Whatever you want.”

Ellie blinked at it.

Not because she didn’t understand.

But because she did.

She set the glass of water down beside her, the faint clink against the desk louder than expected in the stillness. Her hand hovered for a second. Then reached.

Her fingers curled around the camera.

It was heavier than she remembered cameras feeling. Not in weight—but in presence. The cracked leather, the scuffed plastic edges. Her thumb brushed a faint scrape across the viewfinder. It didn’t feel fragile.

It felt kept.

She turned it over slowly in her hands.
The lens had been cleaned. Smudged maybe, but cared for. Someone had touched this recently. Someone had meant for her to hold it.

“Why?” she asked.

Her voice was quiet. Not sharp. Not accusing.

Just soft.

Like if she said it louder, it might ask too much.

Ethan didn’t miss a beat.
“It was Anna’s,” he said simply.

Her fingers paused on the edge of the shutter, suddenly still.

Ethan leaned back slightly, letting the chair take his weight like someone settling into a thought.

“I thought the least I could do,” he said, “was make sure it still worked for you.”

He gave a small shrug—shoulders lifting just enough to acknowledge the intimacy of it, then letting it go with a crooked grin.

“At least this way,” he added, “I won’t go down in history as the guy who gave you a box of broken junk.”

That startled a breath out of her.

Not quite a laugh.
But something close enough that it caught her by surprise.

She looked away, back down at the camera—at the scratches, the softness of the leather worn down by time.
Something about Ethan’s tone made her skin flush, low and quiet, just under her collar.

She wasn’t used to being spoken to like that.

Not kindly.
Not without caution edging every syllable.
Not without suspicion tucked behind the compliments, waiting for her to drop her guard.

This—this was just warmth.
No transaction. No angle.

And that made her nervous in a way she couldn’t name.

Ethan stood and lifted his empty mug, moving toward the small counter in the back where a kettle still steamed. His steps were slow, quiet, nothing performative in the motion.

While his back was turned, Ellie ran her thumb along the grip of the camera.
Slow. Intentional.
Like she could read its history with her fingers.

The plastic was cool. The edges softened. Her thumb paused near the shutter. She didn’t press it.

“You know,” Ethan said, his voice drifting between them like steam, “I heard you had an artistic side. Painting. Drawing. That sort of thing.”

Ellie glanced up, more surprised than she meant to be.

No one talked about that.
Not here.
Not in that way.

He wasn’t testing her.
Wasn’t baiting a compliment out of her.
Just… remembering something that had nothing to do with who she had to be to survive.

“That camera,” he continued, lowering a tea bag into the water with slow, practiced ease, “will do more in your hands than it ever could in mine.”

A pause.

“I figured… maybe it’d help you keep whatever moments you want to hold onto.”

Ellie stared at the desk.
At the tin.
At her hands.

The camera felt real. Too real.

Like something she didn’t deserve to carry.
Like a promise she hadn’t earned.

It sat in her lap like memory.
Like weight.

And for a moment, it felt like too much.

She stood without thinking.
Not to make an exit.
Just to move. To keep from sitting still long enough to feel everything at once.

The camera went into her bag with quiet care—no zip, no shove, just a cradle of her hand as if it were something that could bruise.

The tin of film, she held in her palm. Fingers curled gently around it like it might come apart if she gripped too tight.

“…Thanks,” she said.
Voice low. Rougher than it needed to be. But honest.

Ethan turned toward her again, still holding his mug. He didn’t smile this time. Just met her gaze with steady calm.
“You’re welcome,” he said. Like it wasn’t a favor. Like it didn’t cost either of them anything.

She gave him a small nod—nothing more.

Then she turned, walked to the door, and let herself out.

Not because she wanted to leave.
But because being given something without strings still felt heavier than most things she had to carry.

___

The camera felt heavier in her bag than it should’ve.

Not physically.

Just… weight.
The kind that belonged to objects that remembered more than she did.

Ellie didn’t rush back to her cabin.
But she didn’t wander either.

Her boots scuffed softly against the damp stone paths threading between the buildings.
Wind tugged at the edges of her hoodie, pulling loose strands of hair across her cheeks. She didn’t fix them.

Her thoughts weren’t racing.
Just distant.
Blurred around the edges.

She kept the tin in one hand as she walked, fingers running idly along its dented surface.
The metal was cool. Textured. Her thumb caught on the lip of the lid, not trying to open it—just tracing the shape over and over. A motion with no destination.

She passed the training yard without looking.
The low hum of voices, the rhythmic snap of a bowstring—background noise. Familiar. But distant.

She adjusted her grip on the tin, then did it again.

She didn’t realize she’d slowed down until her feet stopped carrying her forward.

She paused between two buildings where ivy clung to the siding, a small knot of wildflowers pushing up through a crack in the concrete. She wasn’t looking at them, not really. Just... standing there.

The tin box shifted in her palm.

That’s when she felt it.

Not a sound.
Not a breath.

Just the faintest pull at the back of her neck.

Like being seen.

Her shoulders stiffened a fraction.
Her fingers curled around the tin, shielding it without thinking.

She didn’t turn right away.

Just looked forward, eyes narrowing slightly.
The corner of her vision caught motion—far, near the shadows of the outer walk.

A figure.

Not walking.
Standing.
Watching.

And then—gone.
Or maybe never there at all.

A shape—tall, broad, familiar—moved between two buildings up ahead, half-swallowed by fog.
One moment there.
The next, gone.

Ellie stopped mid-step.

Her body knew before her thoughts caught up.
Something about the way the shoulders moved. The tilt of the head. The stillness after.

Not looking at her. Not exactly.

But recognizing her.

Abby?

The word didn’t land in her mind—it hit lower. Somewhere in the ribs.
Cold and slow, like something she didn’t want thawing just yet.

It was too far to be certain.
And too familiar to ignore.

She didn’t move.
Just stood there a second longer than she meant to.
Jaw clenched.
Fingers twitching at her sides.

She wasn’t going to chase the shadow of someone she wasn’t ready to face.

She walked faster.

Back at her cabin, the air was colder than she’d left it.
Still. Dry.
Like it had been holding its breath while she was gone.

She stepped inside and let the door swing shut behind her, the wood catching with a soft thud that felt louder in the quiet.

Her bag dropped beside the desk, landing with a muffled weight. She didn’t bother to hang it up. Her fingers moved automatically—unzipping, reaching in.

The camera came out first.

She set it down gently on the wooden surface, beside her journal and the stub of charcoal that hadn’t seen her touch in days.
A faint film of dust lined the spine of the notebook.

Ellie stood there, staring at the camera.

The worn leather. The cleaned lens. The tiny stamped symbols near the cartridge slot.

A gift. A memory. A tool.
She didn’t know which one it was supposed to be yet.

And then it hit her.

She had no idea how to load the film.

Her lips parted like she might laugh.
But no sound came.

“Shit,” she muttered instead, rubbing the back of her neck.

She hadn’t thought to ask.
Hadn’t even remembered there was something to ask.
Too wrapped up in holding the thing. In holding herself together.

Her hand hovered over the little metal latch, fingers resting just above it.

She didn’t touch it.

Not now.

Not when she didn’t know what she was doing.

“I’ll ask tomorrow,” she murmured—not to herself, not to the camera. Just into the room.

Her body dropped into the chair, slow and heavy, as if her bones had been waiting all day for permission to let go.
The wood creaked under her, familiar. Solid.

She sat there.
Not thinking.
Not planning.

Just letting herself stop.

Then, slowly, she reached for a piece of paper.

The drawer creaked as she slid it open—just enough to remind her how long it had stayed shut.

Her fingers brushed past scraps, torn corners, and old folded notes before settling on one clean sheet.

No lines.
No creases.
Just blank space.
Something she’d been saving.
Something she hadn’t dared scribble on—not yet.

She set it down in front of her like it might flinch if she moved too fast.

The charcoal came next, pulled from beside her journal, the end dark and dulled from older words she couldn’t read anymore.

She sat with both in front of her.
Just sat.

The paper didn’t ask for anything.
But it waited.

Her hand hovered above it, charcoal resting between her fingers, poised but unmoving.

She didn’t know where to start.

She wanted to say something.
She wanted to let Dina know she was still breathing.
Still here.
But everything felt too much—or not enough.

Ellie stared at the page like it might give her permission.

Then, finally, she wrote:

Hey, Dina.

The words stayed alone for a while.
She stared at them, like maybe that would be enough.
Like maybe it already said too much.

But her hand moved again.

I’m fine. Sort of. I don’t know.

I made it to the island. I’m still trying to figure out what that means.

She paused.

Looked toward the desk.
Toward the camera.
Toward the small tin of film she still didn’t know how to load.

Then her eyes dropped back to the page.

I met someone. Ethan. The man who sent Lev, who said he knew my mom.

He gave me her things. Her stuff. It was… weird. And good. And I don’t know how I feel about it.

But there’s this camera. It used to be hers. And it still works.

I think I might try to take pictures. Maybe of things I want to remember. Maybe of things I’m scared to forget.

She stopped there.

Her chest tightened.
Her thumb smeared a faint mark across the edge of the paper where the charcoal had collected.

Then, smaller, shakier, she wrote:

Tell JJ I miss him.

Every day.

The words pulled something up and out of her.

Her fingers trembled slightly.

She blinked hard and stared down at the next blank line, like it might hurt if she touched it wrong.

And then:

And you.

She sat with that for a long time.

The edges of the page curled slightly under the pressure of her hand.

That one didn’t need explaining.
And maybe that’s what scared her most.

After a while, her hand moved again—softly, carefully.

I don’t know if I’m still the same.

But I’m trying.

She signed nothing.

Just folded the page like it might tear if she wasn’t gentle.
Held it between both hands, like it was something alive.

Later, she’d figure out how to send it.

Someone was always going to Jackson.
Someone always was.

Chapter Text

The kettle never whistled in time.

Ellie always poured too early, the water barely hot enough to steep. She wasn’t even sure the leaves counted as tea—just something Talia had left outside her door one morning in a scrap of cloth, folded tight, tied with twine. No note. Just a knock and a muttered, “For sleep. Or your hands. Whatever helps.”

Talia hadn’t lingered. She didn’t ask how Ellie was sleeping. Didn’t comment on the way Ellie flinched when she dropped a fork in the mess hall, or how her fingers had started trembling again, stiff with cold even when it wasn’t. But she’d seen it. The small things. The way Ellie sat curled in on herself during dinner. How she stopped eating with her left hand. How she’d stopped eating altogether, some nights.

Ellie never asked what the plant was. Some wild thing—maybe mint, maybe bitterroot. It tasted like dirt and pine needles and the kind of silence people carried around here instead of comfort.

It wasn’t kindness. Not really.

Just what people gave when they didn’t know how to say: You look like you’re about to come apart.
And didn’t want to watch you do it.

She didn’t thank her.

But she kept the kettle.

It gave her something to fill. Something to light. Something to wait for, even if the water never boiled right. And maybe that was the point.

She never knew how long to steep it. The first time, she left the leaves in too long. The second, she barely let them touch the water. Still tasted the same. Bitter, earthy. Like the bottom of a wet boot. She thought, more than once, about asking Talia how it was supposed to work. If there was some trick to it—boil first, then steep? Crush the leaves? Strain them?

But the moment never felt right. Too many people around. Too much silence between them. And Ellie hated asking for things, even small ones.

Once—just once—she thought about asking Ethan.

He looked like the kind of person who’d take tea seriously. British, probably. Or raised by someone who was. The way he touched the kettle in the lab like it was made of glass. The way his voice softened around certain words like he'd inherited patience from someone polite. Maybe he even had a stash of real tea somewhere. The kind that didn’t taste like compost and guesswork.

But she hadn’t asked him either.

Didn’t want to give him that piece of herself. Didn’t want to be seen holding a mug like it meant anything. Didn’t want him thinking she needed comfort. That she needed his help.

So she just kept making it wrong.

And drinking it anyway.

She sat on the edge of the cot, one leg tucked under the other, the chipped ceramic cupped between both hands. The warmth didn’t last. The taste didn’t matter. It was a ritual now. A pause before the rest of the day came looking for her.

Steam rose, kissed her face, disappeared.

Across the small cabin, her mother’s box sat untouched by the window. Same place it had been for days now. She hadn’t lifted the lid for days now—hadn’t dared. Some mornings, the light hit it just right, catching the metal like it meant something, like it remembered her mother better than she ever could.

This morning, it didn’t.

It just sat there. Still. Heavy. Waiting.

Like it always did.

She told herself she’d open it again. Tomorrow. Or the day after. Whenever the weight in her chest stopped feeling like it might crack her open.

But she didn’t.

And across from it, the corner where she kept the guitar, the one she found at the airport—where she used to hum, to pluck at whatever chords her hands still knew and able to play—stayed silent too. Covered now with a folded blanket, like she was trying to bury that part of herself under soft, forgettable fabric.

No music played.
No sound at all.

Not from the next cabin. Not from the outside. Just the muffled rhythm of boots, the clipped edge of someone giving instructions she didn’t need to hear, and the wind tugging at lines of laundry no one had remembered to bring in the night before.

The world moved without her.

And she let it.

Ellie didn’t speak.

She hadn’t spoken for three mornings now.

Not a word. Not a full one, anyway.

Not unless someone spoke to her first—and even then, just enough to pass. A nod. A grunt. Maybe her name, mumbled under her breath when signing the shift ledger. Enough to be counted. Enough to not worry anyone. Enough to say: I’m alive.

Let that be enough.

No one pushed.

Lev sometimes nodded at her when they crossed paths near the stables, but didn’t speak. Talia would glance up from the firepit and squint, like she was debating whether or not to ask something, but never did. No one did.

And maybe that was the point.

Maybe silence was the safest way to stay in the room without opening any part of herself that hadn’t healed right.

After tea, she pulled on her hoodie, sleeves long enough to swallow her thumbs. She laced her shoes without rushing. Her journal lay on the corner of the desk, closed. The pencil inside hadn’t moved since yesterday’s sketch of a crow perched on a wire.

She didn’t open it.

___

The walk to the cliffs was short.

But she always took the long way.

Past the wind-warped garden beds someone had tried to revive in spring. They’d sprouted once—half-wild carrots, a few crooked onions—but now they were brittle stems, slumped like bodies too tired to stand. She didn’t know who tended them anymore. Maybe no one.

She passed the old lookout tower, its lens cracked and sun-faded, still aimed toward the ocean like it was expecting someone to come back. Maybe it had been Ethan’s post once. Maybe someone else’s. It didn’t matter. It never saw anything but waves.

Then the fence.

A short run of warped wood, bleached pale and half-buried in tall grass. There were initials carved there—layered, overlapping, like kids trying to leave proof they’d existed. J.T. + M.C. A lone “A” carved deeper than the rest.

She paused there sometimes. Traced the letters with a callused thumb, wondering if any of them ever made it past twenty.

Today, she didn’t stop.

The wind off the ocean picked up near the ledge, sharp and briny. It clawed at her collar, tangled in her hair, slipped into the tears at the knees of her jeans. Her scars lit up under the cold like fire beneath skin. She let them.

Below, waves slammed against the cliffside, hard and endless. The kind of sound that didn’t change. That didn’t care if you were listening.

The sky stretched out, all flat grey and no promise. A smear of light trying to pass for morning.

She stood there a long time. Arms folded. Jaw tight.

She didn’t cry.

Not here.

There were too many places she’d already bled.

Instead, she pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth. Old habit. A trick to keep the ache from climbing higher. Something Joel taught her once, without ever meaning to—don’t cry until you’re behind a locked door.

Eventually, she walked again.

Not because she was ready to leave.

Because she didn’t know what staying would do.

___

Evenings were softer.

But not safer.

She found herself drifting toward the lab just before dark—not because anyone expected her there, and not because she had anything to offer. But the light inside was warm, low, and steady. And it was one of the only places on the island where silence didn’t feel like a punishment.

Ethan never asked why she came.

Never called her over.

But the first time, he’d cleared a space at the far end of the bench without a word. Left a stack of blank labels and a marker beside it. A quiet invitation.

She sat down like she didn’t trust the chair to hold her. Like she expected the moment to end.

It didn’t.

So she kept coming back.

The vials were always cold to the touch, beaded with condensation. Sometimes her fingers stuck to them slightly, and she’d curse under her breath before steadying the tape. She wrote slow at first—tight letters, block print, sharp edges. No room for mistakes.

C. militaris.
N. cordyceps.
Unknown.

Her handwriting never slipped, even when her hands did. The tremble in her left palm was getting worse. She told herself it was from the cold.

Once, she dropped a vial cap.

It skidded across the floor and disappeared under a storage unit. She crouched to grab it and caught Ethan watching her—not intently. Just… tracking. Like he was cataloguing movement, not meaning.

She looked up.

He looked away.

Later, he passed her a glass of water. Didn’t say a word. Just set it near her elbow and went back to sorting slides.

She took it.

Didn’t thank him.

Not because she wasn’t grateful. But because gratitude felt like giving something. And she wasn’t ready to give anything yet. Not even that.

___

She stayed until the lights dimmed on their own, the overhead sensors gently warning of curfew.

When she left, it was always the same.

She’d uncap the marker, place it back in the tray, slide her chair back without scraping the floor, and nod toward Ethan without meeting his eyes.

He never stopped her.

Never tried to say goodnight.

And that, somehow, was the only reason she kept coming back.

___

Back in the cabin, the light felt thinner. Dimmed by routine. Or maybe by her.

She’d sit on the edge of the bed, one boot still on, the other kicked halfway beneath the cot. Her eyes always found the box first—still by the window, still unopened. Sometimes she thought about moving it. Hiding it under the bed. Locking it in the trunk. But that would mean it mattered again.

So she let it sit.

Untouched.

Not yet.

Then her gaze would shift—down to the desk, where the journal waited. Where the pencil lay half-buried under the edge of a torn page. She didn’t always reach for it. But on the nights she did, her fingers moved like they were remembering something her mind wasn’t ready to hold.

It wasn’t meditation.

She wouldn’t call it that.

But the rhythm of it—the scratching of graphite, the slow curves of ink, the weight of silence around each word—felt like something grounding. Like the pressure of a heartbeat against a cracked rib.

She didn’t always write in straight lines. Sometimes it was sketches. Fragments. Mushrooms. Names she didn’t say out loud. Words she might not mean in the morning.

Sometimes she only wrote the date.

Other times, whole pages came fast, and she’d barely remember what she said once the page turned.

But she always ended the same way.

At the edge of the bed, just before the lights flickered once—her last warning before blackout—she’d reach beneath her shirt and pull the dog tag free.

Let it settle in her palm. Cold. Heavy. Familiar in the way a scar is familiar.

Her thumb would trace the engraved edge once. Never twice.

Then she’d close her hand around it and breathe.

Not deeply. Not like someone who was healed.

Just enough to prove she still could.

Still breathing.
Still here.
Still watching.

And then she’d let go.

___

She didn’t tell anyone she was going.

No sign-up. No scheduled rotation. Just showed up at the training yard before sunrise, when the fog was still clinging low and the frost hadn’t melted from the grass. The place was quiet. Empty. Not even Lev yet. Perfect.

She liked it best like this—before voices, before comments, before the weight of anyone else's gaze.

The practice bow leaned against the side wall where the others were stacked. Lighter than her old one, but not enough to matter. She grabbed it, fingers already curling into position by instinct. Almost.

The grip felt off.

She adjusted automatically, testing the draw. Her shoulder pulled tight. The strain bit clean across her back, but she didn’t flinch.

Then came the sting.

Her fingers.

She didn’t look down. Didn’t need to. The way her grip failed—slow, slanted, like water slipping through cupped hands—told her everything.

Still broken.

She braced the bow against her left palm, lining it up between the base of her thumb and what was left of her ring and pinky. It was like trying to hold memory in a hand that couldn’t close.

She drew anyway.

The string twanged. Her chest locked.

The arrow skidded wide—missed clean, slicing past the hay bale to thud into the fence post beyond. Not even close.

She stared.

Let the failure settle into her skin.

Then she nocked another. This one wobbled mid-air and dropped with a pathetic thud just short of the target.

She inhaled slow. Through her nose.

Not angry. Not yet.

Just… out of sync. Like her body didn’t quite believe it belonged to her anymore.

A third arrow. Slightly better. Outer ring, if she squinted hard enough.

She reset.

Realigned her stance.

And then—

That feeling.

Like something slid down her spine. Not touch. Not cold.

Eyes.

She didn’t move at first.

Didn’t drop the bow.

Her breathing caught.

Not because she felt unsafe.

Because she recognized the weight of it. The specific kind of stillness that settled over someone watching you from above, behind, apart.

Slowly, without turning her head, she let her eyes drift to the edge of her vision—toward the old watchtower above the far fence.

There.

Barely visible through the mist and slanted morning light—just a silhouette.

A shift of weight. A faint outline of a shoulder, a braid, a stance that had once been familiar enough to haunt her nightmares.

Abby.

Of course it was her.

Still.

Watching.

Ellie stared forward, back toward the target. Her hands tensed on the bowstring. Her pulse thrummed too fast in her neck.

She didn’t turn. Didn’t give her the satisfaction.

But the quiet throb of being watched—after everything, after Jackson, after Santa Barbara, after all the things they did to each other—was too much.

Too raw.

Too soon.

She drew again, looser this time, then muttered under her breath without looking up.

“Fuck off.”

And that’s when she heard the footsteps.

Light. No crunch. No rush.

She didn’t turn.

“Your grip’s off,” came the voice—calm, boyish, sure, but without smugness.

Lev.

Of course.

She stayed still, eyes fixed on the target. A flicker of something—not annoyance, not relief. Just memory. He always did this: appeared quietly, observed more than he spoke.

He stepped into view slowly, circling her with the kind of respectful distance that said he knew better than to startle someone who kept their hands near weapons.

“Still trying to hold it with your fingers,” he said, nodding toward her left hand. “We worked on that. Back in Jackson. Remember?”

She didn’t respond. But something in her jaw shifted. Not quite guilt. Not quite resistance.

“You have to let the weight fall into your palm,” he continued, calm as ever. “You’re used to control. Precision. But right now, you need pressure. Stability. Let the bow do more of the work.”

Ellie adjusted.

Slightly.

Just enough that her stance rebalanced. That the tension in her shoulder eased half a degree. Her arm still trembled with the effort—weeks of disuse, of holding back—but the arrow flew cleaner this time.

It struck the second ring.

Ellie lowered the bow.

A breath slipped from her lips. Not satisfaction. Just survival.

“Better,” Lev said.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t nod like a teacher. Just stated it. A fact.

His voice wasn’t congratulatory.

It was honest.

And that, somehow, felt more valuable than anything else.

Ellie turned to look at him now—really look.

His hair was shorter than before, tucked behind one ear. Neater. His frame had filled out slightly, still wiry but stronger. There was something steadier in how he stood—shoulders squared, arms folded, weight evenly placed. He’d grown. Or maybe he just carried himself like someone who knew the cost of survival and had chosen to stay upright anyway.

Not a kid anymore.
Not the boy she’d last seen bleeding into sand and surf.

He met her gaze without apology.

“You always this helpful?” she asked, dryly.

Lev smirked. Not a wide one. Just a slight pull at the edge of his mouth.

“Only when it’s worth it.”

Ellie held his gaze a second longer, chin tilted, eyes narrow like she was testing him.

Then—unexpectedly, her voice lower now—
“How’s the ankle?”

Lev blinked.

“Still stiff some mornings,” he said. “But better. Mostly.”

She gave a soft grunt—somewhere between acknowledgment and approval.

Then turned back to the target.

Drew again.

The string bit into her shoulder, but her fingers stayed firm. The shot cut cleaner, hit the edge of the bullseye.

Close. Closer than she’d expected.

She let the breath go, slow.
Just one small crack in her armor. Enough for air to slip in.

Lev didn’t say anything. Didn’t praise. Just stood beside her with the kind of presence that didn’t need words.

And that, right now, was exactly what she needed.

Lev stepped beside her.

Didn’t speak.
Didn’t shift his weight too close.
Just stood there—quiet, steady, a shape at her side that didn’t press or pull.

Close enough to count as company.
Far enough to let her pretend he wasn’t.

She didn’t send him away.

The bow trembled slightly in her grip, muscles in her forearm burning from strain she hadn’t rebuilt yet. But her jaw stayed locked. Her spine didn’t fold.

She drew again.

Let it loose.

Again.

The arrows landed better now—closer, cleaner. Still off-center, but no longer shameful. No longer flinching.

When she reached for another arrow and found none, Lev crouched and picked one up near her boot. He handed it over without looking, the motion casual, practiced.

His fingers brushed hers.

Just a second. Quick. Indifferent.

But it startled her anyway.

Not because she was scared.
But because she wasn’t used to being touched without expectation.

This—whatever this was between them—wasn’t something she’d planned for.

Wasn’t something she knew how to hold yet.

But she didn’t pull away.

Didn’t tense.

She just took the arrow, notched it, drew—

Let it fly.

It hit just shy of the center ring. The bowstring whispered. Her pulse didn’t spike.

Not perfect.

But hers.

She stepped back from the line, rolled her shoulder with a soft wince, then rubbed the heel of her palm into her wrist. Her fingers ached from holding too tight.

“Not bad,” she muttered.

Lev tilted his head, studying the target.

“You’ll get it back,” he said. “You always do.”

She looked at him then—really looked.

Not the boy from Santa Barbara.
Not the survivor who’d walked beside her across half the coast.
But someone still standing. Still choosing to show up.

There was no judgment in his face.
No pity.

Just observation.

Quiet knowing.

Like someone who’d also shattered.
And found new edges to live inside.

Ellie didn’t thank him.
Didn’t smile.

But the next arrow she picked up?

She passed it to him.

Wordless.

Lev nodded, took it, and stepped forward.

And just like that, something shifted.

Not trust.
Not friendship.

But a silence they both could live inside.

And neither of them needed to break it.

___

It was her fifth arrow in a row.

The wind had picked up—dry and briny, cutting across the training yard in sharp bursts. It tugged at the loose edges of her hoodie, stung the skin behind her ears. Lev was crouched by the fence now, adjusting the leather wrap on one of the spare bows. He hummed something low under his breath, half-melody, half-thought.

The fog had finally broken.

Sunlight streamed across the yard in long, thin bands, throwing shadows between the target posts and the fence rails. The bale she’d been hitting stood ragged and pockmarked, half-split from impact.

Ellie raised her bow again.

Her jaw clenched. The tremble in her arms had mostly settled. Her left palm, now flattened into a stiff but serviceable grip, absorbed the tension. She drew, steady this time, felt the string bite into her back, a clean diagonal line of effort—

And froze.

A flicker.

No sound. Just a shape. A shift of weight. Barely a silhouette—up high, near the watchtower nestled at the edge of the treeline.

Still.

Too still.

Not a bird. Not shadow.

Someone.

Watching.

Her breath hitched for a beat, then leveled out. Controlled.

She didn’t turn her head.

Didn’t lower the bow.

She didn’t need to.

She knew that kind of gaze. The weight of it. Not curious. Not cautious. Not checking in. Just… watching.

Like she was a puzzle someone was trying to solve without touching the pieces.

Like she was an animal in a cage, and Abby was just checking to see if she’d started pacing yet.

Ellie’s grip tightened on the string.

The bow creaked slightly.

She let the air leak out of her lungs, jaw still tight, then muttered—low, flat, for no one but the wind:

“Fuck off.”

Lev looked up from where he crouched, his brow twitching with mild confusion.

“What?”

Ellie didn’t answer.

She let the arrow sag and slid it back into the quiver at her hip. The target ahead blurred a little at the edges—she wasn’t sure if it was sweat, wind, or rage pressing behind her eyes.

She didn’t glance at the tower again.

Didn’t have to.

She already knew.

Abby hadn’t moved. Hadn’t made a sound. Just stood there like she had a right to be invisible while Ellie worked to hold herself together in pieces.

The unfairness of it made Ellie’s skin crawl.

___

Later, after the last arrow had been retrieved and the bow hung back in its slot, Ellie dusted her palms off on her jeans and walked toward the edge of the yard. Her muscles were sore. Her wrist throbbed. Her jaw ached from how long she’d been clenching it.

Lev followed a few paces behind.

His steps were easy, unrushed. But his words weren’t.

“She must’ve been checking your stance.”

Ellie didn’t stop.

Didn’t even look over her shoulder.

Lev kept walking anyway.

“It’s not about you.”

That made her stop.

Sharp breath. No sigh—a cut.

She turned without turning, shoulders squared, then stepped off toward the water pump near the fence line. The rusted handle groaned as she yanked it once—twice—until a stream of water spilled into her palm and splashed against the metal basin.

She let the water collect, then flicked it toward the dust like it had insulted her.

“She doesn’t need to check my fucking stance,” Ellie muttered. Her voice was dry. Tight. It snagged on the edge of something she hadn’t meant to say aloud.

Lev didn’t move closer.

Didn’t say her name.

Didn’t apologize for guessing right.

He just stood there, letting the silence stretch in the way only someone who’d learned to survive tension could.

He probably knew Abby was posted at the watchtower today. Maybe she’d even told him. Maybe not. But he knew now. Just from Ellie’s voice. From the way she went still. From the way her hand shook when it wasn’t holding the bow.

He didn’t press.

Didn’t explain.

Didn’t defend.

And maybe that was the only right thing to do.

Ellie gripped the pump again, let more water fall through her fingers—cold, biting. She stared at it as it trickled down her wrist, carving pale trails into the dirt below.

“She stood there,” she said quietly. “Didn’t move. Didn’t say anything.”

Lev stayed quiet.

“She could’ve come down,” Ellie added. Her throat flexed. “Could’ve said anything.”

But she didn’t.

She just watched.
Like Ellie was something fragile in the middle of reconstruction.
Something not hers to touch anymore—but still hers to observe.

It wasn’t curiosity.
It wasn’t guilt.
It was something colder.
More distant.
Like Abby was trying to draw a line in the dirt—I see you, but I won’t reach for you.

Ellie’s eyes burned, but not with tears.

The water kept running. Her hand stung from where her skin had split at the knuckles.

She stared down until the shape of the watchtower in her memory faded.

But the feeling didn’t.

She was being seen.

But not met.

And that—that—hurt more than if Abby had just stayed the hell gone.

Lev stayed still, hands tucked into the sleeves of his jacket, gaze fixed on a distant point across the yard. He wasn’t looking at her, but he wasn’t ignoring her either.

“She’s on duty,” he said after a pause. “She couldn’t come down.”

Ellie let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh—sharper, cracked at the edges.

“Right,” she said, staring down at the pump as the water slowed. “Of course.”

She sniffed once, but it wasn’t from the cold. Her voice dropped into something colder.

“Convenient, huh? For someone who turned the page so fucking easily on killing people.”

Lev’s head turned, just slightly.

Ellie didn’t look at him.

“She used to rip her way through rooms like it was instinct. And now she just… stands there. Watches. Like I’m some goddamn stranger practicing with a toy bow.”

The last word hit harsher than she meant. The bitterness coated her tongue like ash.

Then she stilled.

The silence between them changed. Not angry. Just heavier.

Her shoulders dropped a fraction. She pressed her palm flat on the edge of the pump and exhaled.

“Sorry.”

Lev didn’t move.

But after a second, he said, soft but not weak, “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.” Ellie finally glanced at him, just for a moment. “I know she’s trying. I do. I just…”

She looked away again. Jaw clenched. Fingers curling against rusted metal.

“I can’t pretend it didn’t happen. And I sure as hell can’t pretend it didn’t matter.”

Lev nodded once, slow.

“I know.”

That was it.

No defense. No bridge-building. Just acknowledgment. The kind that made her want to stay standing there a little longer. Just in case silence could do more than words.

She wiped her wet hand on her jeans and stepped back from the pump.

Not ready to go.
But not ready to stay angry either.

___

The cabin smelled like dust and brine.

The window had been left cracked all afternoon, and the salt air had crept in slow, curling through the edges of the curtains, settling into the folds of her blanket, the fibers of her sleeves. It soaked into everything—floorboards, bed sheets, the corners of the journal she kept shoving aside but never far enough away.

She dropped her quiver near the door with a dull thud. Peeled off her hoodie, fingers stiff and slow. Her back ached from holding too much—bowstring tension, bottled rage, things she didn’t name out loud. Her left palm was red where she’d pressed too hard into the grip, like her body couldn’t tell the difference between strength and punishment anymore.

But she didn’t sit.

Not right away.

She crossed the room, boots still on, and dropped into the chair by the desk like the weight of the day had dragged her down by the collar.

She flipped open the journal, thumb braced in the spine, letting it fall to a page already scarred with half-thoughts and broken lines. Her handwriting was a mess of sharp slants and angry loops—always worse when she was spiraling.

She picked up the pencil. Let it settle between her fingers. Tapped the eraser once against the wood of the desk.

Her hand hovered over the paper like it wasn’t sure if it was safe to speak.

Then she wrote:

She was watching again.
Same place. Same silence.
I hit the second ring and she didn’t flinch.
I could’ve screamed and I don’t think she would’ve blinked.

Her fingers twitched. She shook them out. Then kept writing, faster now.

Lev said it wasn’t about me.
But it was.
She knows exactly where I break.
And she just stood there. Like the damage never happened. Like she never held the blade too.

The pencil paused. The tip hovered. She pressed it harder, then wrote slower.

I said too much.
Snapped at Lev.
Shouldn’t have. He’s the only one who doesn’t treat me like a warning sign.

Her eyes stung—not with tears, just the heat that came from holding everything too close for too long.

She set the pencil down beside the journal and stared at the words like they might start bleeding through the page.

Then, quieter this time, she added one last line at the bottom:

If she wants to look—fine.
But I’m not looking back.

She let the journal stay open.

Didn’t read it over. Didn’t tear the page out.

She just sat there, breathing like it might count for something.

And in that stillness, the silence no longer felt like surrender.
It felt like armor.

She stared at the words.

They sat there, quiet and sharp. Flat.

Not enough.

Not for how tight her chest still felt. Not for the way her voice had cracked at Lev, or how her shoulders had locked up the second she saw Abby’s silhouette high in that tower.

She pressed the pencil harder to the page. The tip scratched deeper this time, the graphite dragging fast across the paper. Her fingers moved before her thoughts did—habit, instinct. She began sketching in the corner, rough and impatient.

A mushroom.

Small. Crooked. A rounded cap, uneven shading, the stalk leaning slightly like it had grown in the dark and never got to straighten.

Not pretty.

Not strange.

Just... hidden.

A sporeless thing.
Quiet.
Surviving.

She paused, then scrawled the words beneath it—firmer, sharper.

Still breathing.
Still nothing from Ethan that matters.

The pencil slipped from her hand.

Not thrown. Just… released.

It rolled off the desk, hit the floor with a soft clink, and kept spinning, a tiny sound swallowed by the room.

She didn’t reach for it.

Didn’t blink.

Just stared at the last line like it had betrayed her by being too honest.

Because maybe she wanted something from him.

A word. A question. A reason.

Something human.

But Ethan stayed clinical. Distant. The kind of quiet that felt more like a closed door than a safe room.

And Ellie—

Ellie didn’t know how to knock anymore.

Ethan had spoken to her once.

Days ago.

A quiet nod at the lab table. A half-glance when she set a vial down just right. Nothing more. Not even a comment on her handwriting. Not even a question.

She kept waiting.

For something.
A word.
A gesture.
Even a mistake.
Anything that might mean he saw her—not just the girl from the charts, not just Anna’s leftover—but her.

But the silence stayed.

Not heavy.
Not cruel.
Just... neutral.
And somehow that made it worse.

Because silence from strangers was survival. Silence from him? It felt like erasure.

And Abby—

Abby didn’t even give her that kind of silence.

Abby’s silence wasn’t neutral.

It was deliberate.

Watching from high above, arms crossed, mouth set, eyes unreadable. Like Ellie was a photograph she didn’t want to touch again. A ruined thing she didn’t want to admit she once held in her hands.

Ellie could’ve forgiven distance.
Could’ve even forgiven anger.

But indifference?
That burned deeper than either.

The wind outside caught the edge of the cracked window and pushed it open wider, just enough to make it creak—a soft, hesitant sound, like someone trying to speak but thinking better of it.

Ellie didn’t flinch.

She stood, walked over, and reached for the latch.
Closed it.
Fastened it tight.

As if sealing something out.
Or sealing herself in.

The cabin fell still again.

She didn’t turn the lamp back on.

Just let the journal sit open in the dark, its last words still drying. She didn’t reread them. Didn’t need to. The weight of them lived in her chest already.

She climbed into bed fully clothed, hoodie sleeves pulled over her knuckles. The cot groaned beneath her, old wood shifting like breath beneath a blanket.

The dog tag slipped from beneath her shirt as she lay back, the chain tugging against her neck. It settled cold against her collarbone, small and solid, like a truth she hadn’t asked for but kept anyway.

She held it there with her fingertips. Just for a second.

Didn’t cry.

Didn’t sleep.

Just stared at the ceiling—unblinking, unthinking, too tired to move and too tense to drift.

Still breathing.

___

The lab always smelled like ethanol and something older—spores sealed behind glass, memory stored in cold tubes. The lights buzzed overhead, soft but constant, and the concrete floor held the chill of early morning long past noon.

Ellie hovered in the doorway for half a second longer than she meant to.

Hersch was already inside—hunched over a tray of Petri dishes, scribbling notes in that clipped, impatient way of his, like the weight of the world depended on his handwriting. He didn’t look up when she stepped in.

Neither did Ethan.

But his voice reached her anyway, quiet and even, no pressure tucked in the edges.

“The labels are on the cart,” he said. “Date, color code, strain number. You can make up the rest if Hersch doesn’t catch you.”

Ellie blinked.

Was that… a joke?

She glanced toward him—just in time to catch the smallest flick of expression on his face. Not quite a smile. Not quite mischief.

A wink.

Subtle. Dry. Gone in a blink.

Ellie didn’t say anything.

Didn’t smirk. Didn’t soften. Just moved toward the cart with practiced indifference, like he hadn’t just dropped the first bit of levity she’d heard in days.

But her hand didn’t shake when she picked up the marker.

And something in her chest unclenched, just enough to let the air move.

She didn’t answer.

Just made her way to the metal cart along the back wall and pulled a chair up to it, the legs scraping softly across the concrete like a quiet protest. The sound made Hersch flinch, barely.

The tray in front of her held two dozen vials—some already labeled in Hersch’s tight, sterile script, others still fogged with condensation, beads of moisture clinging to the glass like breath held too long. A few of the samples had begun to bloom along the sides—slow curls of color, faint threads of mycelium threading out like veins.

She picked up the marker.

Uncapped it.

The smell hit fast—sharp, acrid. Something between alcohol and burnt plastic. It settled high in her sinuses, and for a moment, she remembered writing her name on ration cards back in Jackson. Or inventory tags after patrol.

Different world. Same ink.

She got to work.

Slow at first.

Wrote the date with steady hands. Block letters. Neat spacing.

Sept. 22 – C. militaris – brown edge
Sept. 22 – C. unclassified – pink center
Sept. 22 – N. unknown – 3-day growth

Her handwriting was cleaner than it had any right to be. A small rebellion against everything else falling apart.

She pressed the tape down on the side of the vial with her thumb. Smoothed the edges. Realigned the tray.

It was menial. Repetitive.
But there was comfort in that.

Every label she applied said: I’m still here. I still know how to do something. I still have control over my own hands.

Even if she didn’t always feel like they belonged to her anymore.

Ethan moved near the far table, sorting microscope slides with the kind of care that didn’t feel performative. Quiet, practiced, exact. His focus was the kind that made you want to be quieter just by standing near it.

He didn’t speak again.
Didn’t hover.
Just let the space breathe.

Hersch, on the other hand, filled it with noise.

He sighed. Loudly. Twice in five minutes. Then muttered something under his breath—“lab amateurs”—just loud enough to sting, just quiet enough to keep plausible deniability.

Ellie ignored him.

But her shoulders tightened anyway. Every muscle wired like she was waiting for a bark that never came. Like expecting tension had become a reflex.

She pressed the next label down harder than necessary. The tape stuck crooked. She peeled it off and did it again, slower this time.

Hersch had that kind of presence—the kind that walked into a room already disappointed with it.

And the contrast didn’t help.

Ethan stood across from him, easy in his silence. Focused, but not withdrawn. Attentive, but never watching too closely. The kind of person who could go whole days without raising his voice and still be heard.

And Hersch—

Hersch was like someone who couldn’t stand not being noticed.

Ellie didn’t know the details of their history, didn’t want to. But if Hersch really was Ethan’s father, it was almost hard to believe. Like the kindness got bred out by mistake, skipped a generation and grew back only when no one was looking.

Where Ethan felt like still water, Hersch felt like rusted wire—coiled, brittle, ready to cut.

And Ellie—

Ellie didn’t have the patience for men who barked from corners anymore.

So she kept her head down.

Let Ethan’s quiet presence stay between them without standing in the way.

___

An hour passed.

More vials.
More tape.
More silence—steady, breathable, almost meditative.

Her hands moved faster now, steadier. Not perfect, but consistent. The rhythm had become a lifeline—strip, write, press, repeat. The kind of task that didn’t ask questions. That didn’t look back at you when you messed up.

She didn’t even realize she was humming.

Soft. Low. Just a note, then another. Nothing melodic. Just breath given shape.

It happened sometimes when her body remembered calm even if her brain hadn’t caught up yet.

Then—

A scoff.

Sharp. Purposeful.

“Next thing she’ll be painting daisies on the samples,” Hersch muttered from his corner.

Ellie froze mid-label.

The marker hovered over the strip of tape, its tip bleeding a single dot into the same spot. The words she was writing fuzzed at the edges—half-finished, half-drowned by a familiar heat crawling up the back of her neck.

She didn’t look up.

Didn’t snap.
Didn’t defend herself.

She didn’t need to. That wasn’t the point.

It wasn’t just what he said—it was how he said it. That little sneer that made her feel like a joke. Like she was still thirteen and out of place. Like the only thing anyone ever saw in her was failure dressed up as effort.

The kind of belittling that was meant to land like a flick but always felt like a punch.

And then—

Ethan.

His voice came smooth, low. Not sharp. Not loud. But final.

“She’s helping,” he said. “Let her.”

Not a defense.
A statement.

Ellie still didn’t look up.

But she felt the silence that followed—sudden and tight.

Hersch muttered something else. Too quiet to catch. Then he picked up a stack of slides with more force than necessary and left, footsteps trailing into the cold storage room like a storm pulling itself inward.

Only when the door latched behind him did Ellie finally glance up.

Ethan hadn’t moved. Still at the microscope. Still sorting. Still working.

But his jaw was set now. Tight. Like something had shifted beneath the surface. Not anger. Just... done.

Ellie looked back down.

Her fingers moved again, slower now.

She finished the label. Pressed it down with care.

She didn’t say thank you.
Couldn’t.

But the weight in her shoulders—just for a moment—eased.

Ellie blinked once, her fingers still hovering over the last vial.

She hadn’t expected it—that feeling. It landed low and strange, like a forgotten coat placed over her shoulders. Something close to… gratitude.

Not comfort.
Not safety.
But a softness she hadn’t planned on being allowed to feel.

She didn’t say anything.

Didn’t look at Ethan.

But on the next label, she let her hand slow.

At the corner of the strip—just beneath the date, after the strain number—she sketched a tiny mushroom. Crooked cap. Tilted stalk. One side heavier than the other.

Nothing pretty.
Nothing obvious.
Just hers.

It took only two seconds. Quick, practiced. Like a secret she wasn’t sure she wanted to keep.

She pressed the label onto the vial and set it back in the tray, then reached for the next.

Ethan didn’t comment.

Didn’t stop her. Didn’t make a joke.

But for just a second—barely longer than a breath—she thought she heard it:

The faintest sound.
A shift of air.
The softest shape of a smile behind his breath.

Not laughter.

Not amusement.

Just… acknowledgment.

Ellie didn’t look up.

Didn’t dare.

But her hand was steadier after that.

___

The cliffs were quieter in the evening.

Most people stayed inland once the light began to slip, when the horizon lost its edges and the ocean turned darker than the sky. The wind got meaner out here—cutting, cold, indifferent.

But Ember didn’t mind the cold.
And neither did she.

Not anymore.

His hooves crunched over gravel and brittle grass as they climbed the familiar path, slow and steady. The air carried salt and old damp wood and the faint, unnameable rot of the tide—smells that lived in her clothes now. In her skin. Like the island was trying to soak into her, cell by cell.

The ledge came into view, just beyond a line of weather-warped shrubs and wind-stunted growth. A steep drop met her gaze—sheer rock wall, uneven stone, gulls circling overhead like they owned the silence.

The waves below pulsed in a rhythm she couldn’t follow—off-tempo and cruel. But somehow, it still matched her breath.

Ember stopped without a signal, his ears flicking toward the sea. He sniffed the air like he expected it to carry answers.

Ellie let go of the reins.
Let her hands fall slack.

Her fingers curled once—tight, like she might hold onto something invisible—then uncurled. Empty.

She stepped past him, boots cracking through a patch of dead grass. The wind tangled her hair and stung the corners of her eyes until they watered from salt.

She didn’t blink it away.

The sea stretched wide and pitiless in front of her.

Endless.
Indifferent.

The kind of vast that didn’t flinch when things vanished.

She stood still for a moment, feeling the way the earth fell away just feet from her boots.

Then she lowered herself slowly, boots grinding into the dirt, hands bracing against the ground behind her. She leaned back on her palms, elbows locked, face tilted toward nothing in particular.

The wind slipped under her sleeves and pricked her skin.

Ember paced nearby, crunching dry plants beneath his hooves, but he stayed close. Like he could feel her mood coiled around her like wire.

“I could just fall,” she murmured. The words slipped past her lips before she could catch them. “Slip. No sound. No one around.”

Her throat clicked dry.

Then, quieter—barely a breath—

“They’d probably just say I wandered off.”

She didn’t mean it like a threat. Not like a cry for help.

Just... a tired fact.
A flat note in a song no one was listening to.

Because that’s what she felt like most days—
Not needed.
Not wanted.
Just tolerated.
A myth tucked into the back corner of the lab. A name on the Firefly roster. A girl once immune, now invisible.

She pulled her knees up, folding herself small, chin pressed into the denim at her shins. Her arms circled her legs loosely, not for warmth. For gravity.

She closed her eyes.
Not to sleep.
Not to dream.

Just to disappear inside herself for a while.

To make the noise stop.
To make everything stop.

Behind her, Ember huffed. Loud. Real.

Like he was reminding her she wasn’t alone.

She turned her face into her sleeve, rubbed at her eyes.

Didn’t know if it was the ocean or herself leaking out.

Didn’t care.

___

The gravel path forked near the mess hall—one trail heading back toward her cabin, the other veering off behind the water tanks and toward the training yard.

She didn’t mean to go that way.
Not really.

But her boots turned without asking.
And her body followed like it didn’t want her permission.

The sun had dropped lower now, casting everything in long cuts of gold and steel grey. That late-day hush when nothing could hide, when even shadows looked honest.

She heard them before she saw them.

Grunts.
Breath.
A low, soft chuckle—easy, unbothered.

And it hit like a slap.

She moved quieter, slipping behind the equipment shed, where a section of fence had collapsed weeks ago and never been repaired. The metal slats hummed with the wind, vibrating faintly like a warning. She ignored it.

From there, the yard opened wide beneath her gaze.

Two figures circled the mats in loose shirts and tape-wrapped hands. One of them—Nolan, maybe. Tall. Lean. Fast.

The other—

Abby.

Ellie didn’t breathe.

Just stared.

She looked different now. But not like she had in Santa Barbara—no longer sunken, no longer skeletal, no longer ghostlike in a body stretched too thin by punishment.

She’d grown back.

Not into the war-built figure she’d had in Seattle—none of the bulk, none of that sheer brute presence—but something leaner. Still strong. Still muscle. Defined but trimmed down, balanced.

Efficient.

And her hair—still short, but longer than it had been when she’d collapsed half-dead onto that boat. Pulled into a small knot at the back of her head now, damp with sweat. No braid. No weight. Just practical. Sharp.

Ellie’s throat went dry.

She watched Abby block a hit with her forearm, counter with a sharp hook to Nolan’s ribs, pivot and dodge low, slipping behind him and tapping his shoulder as if to say you’re done. Not brutal. Just precise.

Calculated.

Controlled.

Ellie wanted to look away. She meant to look away.

But she couldn’t.

There was something mesmerizing about it. About her. About how Abby moved—not like a killer, not like someone trying to prove something, but like someone who had learned what to carry and what to let go of.

It made Ellie sick.

And maybe…
just a little jealous.

The last time she saw Abby like this, it was on the other end of a fist. On her knees. In blood. On that beach.

But now?

Now Abby laughed.

She tilted her head back, mouth open, eyes squinted against the fading sun as Nolan shook his head and muttered something. The sound hit Ellie low in the gut—anger, or memory, or both.

Because how dare she laugh?

How dare she get to rebuild?

Ellie pressed a hand to the rusted metal fence, her fingertips slipping along the edge.

Still watching.
Still unseen.

Still holding her breath.

She didn’t expect a crowd.

But there were at least ten people gathered along the perimeter of the yard—leaning on crates, crouched on overturned buckets, arms folded and eyes narrowed. Watching. Whispering. Smirking. A few held scraps of paper with scribbled names and numbers. Betting slips.

Ellie clocked them without thinking. Didn’t recognize most of them. Fireflies. Newer ones.

One voice stood out:

Nolan.

"Come on, Abs," he called, circling her on the mat, his feet light but not fast enough. "You sure you’re ready for this? Could’ve sworn you were still healing last month."

Abby smirked. Sweat beaded along her brow, darkening the neckline of her shirt.

“Pretty sure I was still beating you last month, too.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd.

Someone shouted, “Put him on his ass Abs!”

Nolan grinned, confident, a little flushed.

“Maybe I’ll go easy on you,” he said, raising his fists. “Just ‘cause you’ve got a fan club tonight.”

Abby ducked under his swing, moved in low, and flicked a jab to his ribs that didn’t land with power but did make him backpedal.

“Go easy,” she said, voice calm, “and you’ll wake up flat on your back.”

That earned a louder cheer. Someone whistled. Another person raised their betting slip, shouting, “Ten on Abby!”

Nolan snorted, trying to cover the stumble with swagger. “Alright. Fine. You want it real?”

Abby raised her chin, shrugged once. “I always do.”

He came at her again, faster this time—more aggressive, like he needed to prove something.

But she didn’t flinch.

She caught the movement, sidestepped, pivoted hard, and swept his leg. The crowd let out a collective “ohhh!” as Nolan hit the mat with a muffled thud.

Abby didn’t press the win. She didn’t gloat.

She just stood there, loose and ready, offering a hand she didn’t expect him to take.

“You talk a lot for someone who hits the ground this often.”

Laughter again. Even louder.

Nolan grabbed her hand, let her pull him up. “One more,” he said through gritted teeth, “two out of three, Anderson.”

Abby rolled her shoulders. “Sure. If you like losing.”

___

From behind the broken fence, Ellie watched it all.

Every word.

Every grin.

Every drop of sweat that ran down Abby’s neck and vanished under her collar.

This wasn’t war.

This was play. Familiar. Friendly. Earned.

And Abby stood in the center of it like she belonged. Like the blood they’d shared had been scrubbed away. Like none of it had followed her here.

Ellie swallowed hard, fingers tightening on the rusted metal. She didn’t know if she wanted to throw up or scream or step into the ring and say I’m still here.

But she didn’t move.

She just watched.

And Abby—

Abby didn’t even know she was being seen.

___

Lev stood nearby, leaning against a crate, arms crossed, his bow slung over his back. He hadn’t placed any bets. Wasn’t laughing. Wasn’t watching the fight the same way the others were.

His gaze swept the crowd once—casual, slow—and didn’t land on her.

But Ellie still had the distinct feeling he knew she was there.

She shifted slightly behind the shed, her shoulder brushing rusted metal. It scraped against the fabric of her jacket, the sound barely audible over the murmurs and cheers from the spectators.

Still, she didn’t move.

Abby hadn’t looked once.

Not toward the field’s edge.
Not toward the shadows.
Not toward her.

And Ellie—
Ellie just watched.

Like a ghost. Half-parted from her own skin.
Watching something that used to be hers—once, in a moment soaked in blood and breathing and violence—now moving on without her.

Nolan straightened from the mat, still winded from the last round, and grinned through gritted teeth.

“One more,” he repeated, trying not to sound like he was pushing. “Two out of three, Anderson.”

Abby rolled out her shoulder, sweat gleaming along her jaw. “Sure,” she said. “If you’re still enjoying this.”

He smirked. “This is me letting you feel confident.”

She let out a dry breath. Almost a laugh. “That’s sweet.”

They circled again.

This time Abby struck first—faster, tighter. A low jab to Nolan’s ribs, a pivot off his reach, a quick heel-slide to test his footing. She was leading now, clean and sharp.

The crowd whooped, voices blending together. Fireflies called bets, clapped hands, shouted out advice no one would follow.

Abby dodged a punch, slipped to the side, and in that tiny pause, her eyes flicked toward the edge of the crowd.

Just a glance.

Lev stood there.

And then—

She saw her.

Ellie.

Still half-hidden behind the rusted fence, not breathing, not blinking.

Their eyes locked.

And for a second—just one second—it felt like the whole world narrowed to that space between them.

Ellie didn’t move. Didn’t smile. Didn’t speak.

She just stared, like she’d been waiting to be seen. Like being seen hurt more than being ignored.

But then—

Nolan’s fist connected.

A sharp hook.

Hard.
Fast.

Abby dropped to the mat, the sound of impact cracking through the yard like a snapped bone.

“Finally!” Nolan shouted, chest heaving. “Got you!”

The crowd exploded—cheers, gasps, laughter. Bets exchanged hands.

Abby blinked up at the sky, breath knocked from her lungs, one hand curled against her ribs. She rolled slowly to her side, breath shallow.

“Don’t look away,” Nolan teased, already circling her again. “Gonna knock you back down.”

But Abby didn’t move yet.

And Ellie—
Ellie had already stepped back from the fence.

Her hands clenched at her sides, jaw set. Something burned at the back of her throat.

Not guilt.
Not triumph.
Just fire.

Whatever the hell that moment was—
It was gone.

___

The darkness felt heavier than usual when she returned to the cabin.

No lamp. No fire. Just the dim blue cast of dusk bleeding in through the window, enough to see her boots as she stepped out of them. Enough to see her hands shake slightly before she curled them into fists.

The rest of the world had kept spinning.

But something had shifted.

She didn’t go to the bed.

She crossed to the desk with slow steps, her shoulder brushing the edge as she sat down. The journal waited where she’d left it, still open to the mushroom sketch. The ink had smudged in one corner—her wrist again, or maybe she'd leaned on it without thinking.

She didn’t linger.

She turned the page.

Blank. Smooth. Waiting.

She picked up the shorter of the two pencils and let it rest between her fingers like a weapon, or a memory.

And then she drew.

Not a full face. Not even a body.

Just a silhouette—standing beneath floodlights, arms loose, one foot back like she was mid-pivot. A hint of a bun this time. No braid. A curved shoulder. A sharp angle in the hips.

Not graceful.
Not monstrous.

Just real.

The moment froze in her memory—Abby turning, meeting her eyes, just for a second. The hesitation. The fracture. And then the punch.

Ellie hadn’t flinched.
Hadn’t looked away.

Not until Abby hit the mat.

When the lines were sharp enough—when the image had started to burn behind her eyes—she lowered the pencil and wrote beneath it.

She saw me.

And she fell.

Her chest rose slowly. Fell again. Something raw and electric hummed beneath her skin.

She added one more line.

Maybe she hasn’t turned the page.

She stared at the words for a long time.

Then turned the page again. One slow, deliberate motion.

A blank sheet stared back at her.

Empty.

Waiting.

Like something was about to happen.

Or someone.

She leaned back in the chair, one hand still resting on the page, the other pressed flat to her chest as if to feel something move beneath the skin.

And she did.

The faintest beat.

Still breathing.

Chapter Text

That morning felt like forever.

Not in the way long mornings used to feel—back at the farmhouse, with JJ’s footsteps padding through the hallway, or the creak of floorboards signaling someone was already brewing coffee. No. This was something else.

This was a morning that didn’t belong to anyone.

Not thick with obligation. Not driven by plans. Just hollow. Vast. Too quiet in the wrong kind of way.

The kind of quiet that made your skin itch.
The kind that made you check your watch even though you didn’t have one.

It started slow. Still.

No nightmares she could remember, but her jaw ached like she’d chewed through steel in her sleep. Her neck popped when she rolled it, stiff with the kind of tightness that came from curling in on herself too long. And her left hand—God, her left hand—throbbed deep in the scar tissue, phantom pressure curling where fingers used to be.

That pain always came before the cold got inside her bones.

The light outside was already shifting when she pulled on her jacket. The sun crept up the edge of the mountain like it regretted showing up—faint and gray and barely there. It threw just enough light across the gravel path to remind her that winter hadn’t gone far.

She moved through her routine the way someone else might move through prayer.

Not with reverence, but habit. Not with faith, but fatigue.

Mechanical. Wordless. Unwitnessed.

In the common hall, the tea was lukewarm and smelled faintly of wet leaves. The bread was dry around the edges. She chewed anyway. The scrape of her fork against the tin plate was louder than the conversations at the other tables.

She didn’t speak. No one tried.

She left half the egg untouched. Always did. The yolk had that strange green tint she could never get past, and no matter how many mornings passed, she still scraped it off with the same quiet disgust.

Her jacket pulled tight at the shoulders as she left, the leather stiff from last night’s wind. She zipped it to her throat.

The stable air was warmer. Ember greeted her with a low snort and a lazy flick of the ear, as if he'd been awake longer than Ellie had.

Brushing his mane helped. A little. The rhythm of it. The way hair resisted then gave way.

Hooves next—checked, tapped, wiped. Not because they needed it, but because Ellie did.

She ran her hand down the saddle strap. Felt the worn leather press back. Noticed a loose thread she hadn’t before. Tugged it once. Let it go.

And then the walk.

Always the same direction. Out past the split gate. Up toward the cliffs where the sea wind turned sharp and the sky opened just wide enough to breathe under.

Today the air smelled like salt and dust. She followed the path without looking for it. Her shoes knew the grooves. The dips. The spot where the trail bent near the fern patch and where her heel always caught against a buried root.

She didn’t think. Not really.

But she still counted—twelve strides between the mossed rocks. Sixteen from the crest to the flat edge of the bluff.

Sometimes she imagined Dina’s voice beside her. Telling her to stop doing that. To stop pacing like something was hunting her.

But she didn’t stop.

She never did.

There were days she went farther.

Let the cliffs call her name like a dare. Let the silence press against her chest until something cracked open inside.

She'd walk past the trail markers, past the edge where common sense stopped and old instinct took over. Where she imagined hearing a guitar string snap, or Dina's voice calling behind her.

But not today.

Today, the ache settled early.

It started somewhere in her shoulders, then crept along her spine, low and dull. Her knees didn’t want to climb, and her fingers wouldn’t warm, even when tucked inside her sleeves.

By the time she made it back to the main path, her hands were colder than the air. Her throat tasted like salt and dust. Her tongue felt thick, like she'd swallowed the wind wrong.

The day had barely begun, and already it felt like it was folding in on itself—like she’d hit the middle too soon and there was nowhere left to go but down.

Usually, she’d stop at her cabin.

Peel off the outer layer. Trade her sweat-damp shirt for something looser. Sit at the desk for a few minutes and stare at the journal she didn’t always open. Sometimes she’d scratch a word across the page. A sketch. A name. Something she didn’t want to mean anything.

Once she wrote Why am I still here?
Then crossed it out before the ink dried.

That desk was where thoughts got too loud.

And the box by the window—still open at the edges, flaps bowed from the last time she’d touched it—waited in the same damn place it always did. Ethan had given it to her the first time they met, with that quiet tone that didn’t ask for thanks.

She’d looked through it. Once. Twice. Enough to know what was in there. A folded shirt, the kind nurses wore under their coats. A lanyard with a half-faded badge. A letter that ended without goodbye.

Anna.

It was all hers. And none of it made sense.

Some days, Ellie could sit beside it. Could hold a piece of her mother’s life in her lap and not flinch. Could let the ache settle in her ribs without shaking.

But not today.

Today, the silence in the cabin felt sharper. The walls thinner. The box heavier just by being seen.

She didn’t want to hear the creak of the desk chair.
Didn’t want to reread the same line and feel the same nothing and pretend it helped.

So she didn’t stop.
Didn’t look at it.
Didn’t let it ask anything of her.

So she kept walking.

Past the split fence. Past the laundry line where someone had forgotten a sock clipped to the rope for days. Past the shed that creaked even in windless air.

Shoes forward. Eyes down.

Toward the only place on this island where silence didn’t echo quite so loud.

Her shoes knew the way now.

Down the main building. Past the infirmary. Past the small house where someone played old records too loud on Sundays. Toward the old compound nestled under the vegetation.

She didn’t knock. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t need to.

Just pushed the door open like she had the right to be there now.

Inside, it was quiet. Still.

Not sterile, not dead. Just… measured.

The kind of stillness that didn’t demand anything from her.

The air held a faint hum—something low and constant, maybe the refrigeration unit in the corner or the electrical buzz of the microscope’s light. Nothing sharp. Nothing urgent. Even the dust in the beams didn’t seem in a rush to land.

No one raised their voice here. No one asked what she was feeling or who she used to be.

In this room, she wasn’t the immune girl.
Wasn’t the one who got away.
Wasn’t the girl who broke things just by surviving.

She was just Ellie.

Shoesteps on concrete. Hands that labeled. A quiet shape filling a quiet chair.

She let the door shut behind her without a word.

Ethan was already there—lab coat on, collar slightly skewed, glasses perched low on his nose like always. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled neatly, pale forearms catching the gold of the lab light.

He didn’t look up.

He never did right away.

And somehow, that made her feel more welcome than words ever could.

The stool at the far end of the workbench was empty. Same place it had been yesterday. And the day before that.

Ellie walked toward it without asking. Without needing to.

There was peace in that—quiet routine, unspoken rhythm.

She pulled the stool in with her shoe, careful not to let it scrape. Sat. Let her arms rest along the table’s edge.

Ethan shifted, just slightly, making space.

Without a glance, he slid a tray of unlabeled vials two inches closer to her side. Left the black marker in its usual spot. Cap already loosened. Sheet tucked neatly beneath the tray.

No instructions.
No small talk.

Just the kind of silence that said, I see you. Do what you came to do.

And that—more than anything—made her stay.

The first vial was cold in her hand.

Smooth glass, condensation pooled just below the lip, as if it had been waiting—just like always—for her fingers to wrap around it.

She turned it under the overhead light, watching the thin veil of water shift, break, re-form.

Then the label.

Pressed on clean. No bubbles. No tilt. Her handwriting was sharp, rigid—block print, nothing cursive, nothing soft.

C. militaris.
N. cordyceps.
Unknown.

Same rhythm. Same task.

But something was different.

Maybe not in her. But in how she noticed.

Ethan’s side of the bench moved like clockwork, but not mechanical. There was care in it. Small things, subtle things—things she hadn’t paid attention to until now.

The way he rubbed his thumb along the edge of each slide before placing it, like testing for flaws.

The way his jaw tightened when she’d snapped at him yesterday. Not a flinch, not a wince—just a subtle tension at the corner of his temple, held for a moment, then released.

Even his voice...

It never rose. He never barked like Tommy or muttered like Joel when something slipped through his grip. Ethan’s tone stayed quiet, contained—but shifted when he spoke to her. Softer when she was silent. Measured when she poked at him.

Sometimes, when she didn’t expect it, it went almost tender.

She didn’t know if it was intentional. But it landed in her chest like something too carefully placed to be random.

The microscope hummed steadily. A warm, low thrum that filled the space between them.

Ethan flicked the corner of a slide. Adjusted the lens. Tapped something into his log with that impossible, sideways handwriting.

She watched him lean in slightly, eyes narrowed, muttering under his breath.

Not English. Maybe Latin. Maybe nothing. Just a sound to fill the static between thoughts.

He never spoke to fill the room.

And yet—

The room never felt empty when he was in it.

Not like him.

Not like that old bastard—Dr. Hersch.

The man moved like he’d invented posture. Always too many collars, too many pens clipped to his coat like he was about to perform surgery on his ego.

He talked like he was allergic to plain language. Always sniffing, always smug, like the room didn’t smell right unless he was the one talking.

Every time he opened his mouth, it felt like he was trying to prove something.

To her.
To Ethan.
To the air itself.

Ellie hated being in the same room as him. Hell, even passing him in the hallway made her want to scratch something.

The last time he tried explaining a mutation to her—slow, theatrical, as if she’d wandered in from kindergarten—she nearly slammed the sample drawer shut on his hand.

She still kind of wished she had.

But Ethan…

Ethan wasn’t like that.

He never explained unless she asked. Never assumed. Never used words to corner her into silence.

He didn’t try to win conversations.

He just spoke when it mattered. Listened like it counted.

And when he didn’t know what to say—he stayed quiet.

Which, in this world, was maybe the rarest thing of all.

And somehow, that made this space feel less like a lab and more like a hiding place.

Not a refuge. Not safety. But a kind of stillness she didn’t find anywhere else.

A strange, humming kind of shelter.
Where she wasn’t waiting to be asked something she couldn’t answer.
Where no one looked at her like a weapon that hadn’t gone off yet.

She hadn’t expected that from him.

Not from a man like Ethan—gray in the beard, careful with his shirtsleeves, quiet in a way that didn’t feel forced.

He was nothing like Hersch.

Didn’t fill the room just to hear himself echo.
Didn’t weaponize intelligence to shut her out.

But he wasn’t like Joel either.
Didn’t crowd her space with silence thick enough to choke on.
Didn’t speak in riddles or avoidance or worry disguised as anger.

And he wasn’t like Tommy—whose kindness always came with the weight of who he’d lost, like a man trying to be better because he’d already failed once.

No. Ethan wasn’t trying to shape her into anything.
Wasn’t even trying to understand her, not really.

He just made space.

She didn’t say thank you.
She never had.
Didn’t know if she even could.

But she came back.
Night after night.

That meant something.

And Ethan—without asking, without commenting, without so much as a look—always made sure there was room for her when she did.

Like maybe he knew the value of silence, too.
Not as distance.
But as invitation.

___

They worked like that for a while.

Together, but not close.

Ellie’s task was simple—at least on paper.

A sheet sat to her left, corners curled, ink slightly smudged from the heel of her palm. Ethan’s handwriting was compact, slanted, neat but tired. She had to tilt her head sometimes to read it—codes, strain names, brief notes in shorthand she was starting to decipher without asking.

She matched each entry to the proper vial, checked the clarity—tilting the glass against the light to see if the sample looked right. If it wasn’t too cloudy, too clotted with fibers or debris. Then she labeled it.

One bold line at a time.

Crisp black marker, steady in her grip.
Print only. No curves. No softness.

Lift. Check. Tag. Line-through the sheet. Move on.

Again. Again. Again.

There was something clean about it.
Straightforward.
Contained.

Not like patrols, where the ground could give out beneath you.
Not like Jackson, where even peace felt like it had to be earned every goddamn day.

Here, she knew what was expected.
No threat.
No sacrifice.
No one watching to see if she’d snap.

Just vials. Labels. A rhythm.

She liked the sound the marker made when it dragged over the label—just soft enough to hear, a little scratch of ink against matte paper. She liked the weight of the glass in her fingers, the tiny click of a vial placed gently back into its tray.

She didn’t need to understand what was inside.

Ethan never asked her to. Never handed her a lecture. Never tested her. He just gave her the sheet, gave her space, and trusted that she’d get it done.

And she did.

Not for him. Not for the cure.

But maybe for herself.

Because here, at this bench, her hands did something that didn’t require a gun or a lie or a reason to look away.

She could be useful without bleeding for it.

Today, she was quieter than usual.
Didn’t ask about the notes in the margins.
Didn’t quiz Ethan about temperature or control groups or those strange, fibrous halos that sometimes bloomed in the petri dishes.

Not because she wasn’t curious.

But because some silences felt easier to carry.
Easier than words.

And Ethan didn’t press.
He never did.

Until the air shifted.

Not with a breeze. Not with a creak of the door or the scrape of a chair.

Just… something subtle.
A pause in the rhythm.
The smallest change in gravity.

Ethan’s movements slowed. Not noticeably. Not to anyone who wasn’t watching.

But Ellie was.

The angle of his elbow. The way his shoulders dipped forward, ever so slightly, as he reached for a new slide. Like the thought had been waiting behind his teeth all along.

And then—

His voice.

Low. Unrushed. Almost like he was commenting on the weather, or the light, or how the sea might look from the cliffs today.

“How’s the camera working, by the way?”

No preamble. No explanation for why he asked now.

Just the question. Set softly between them, like a piece of driftwood laid gently on the surface of the work.

Ellie didn’t look up right away.

The marker paused in her hand. The vial half-turned in her grip.

Her stomach tensed with the flicker of something she couldn’t name.

Recognition, maybe.
Memory.
Annoyance.

And underneath it, that low, stubborn warmth that came with being asked about something only hers.

Something that wasn’t about immunity or science or what she could do for anyone else.

Just… the camera.

Just her.

Ellie’s pen hesitated mid-stroke.

The marker froze just above the label, ink pooling silently at the edge.

She didn’t look up.

“What?”

Flat. Guarded.

But the memory crept in anyway—uninvited, unspoken.

The camera.

That old Polaroid. Chunky. Heavy. The plastic faded at the corners, the strap half-torn, viewfinder scratched just enough to make you squint.

He’d handed it to her the first week.
No explanation.
Just said: It was hers.

Her mom’s.

Anna’s.

Something about that had made her stomach twist.

Not the camera itself, but what it meant.
What it carried.

Because suddenly this object wasn’t neutral.
Wasn’t practical.

It was a piece of someone she couldn’t remember.
Someone the world never gave her a chance to know.

And Ethan had given it to her like it was nothing.
Like it was everything.

She’d taken it without a word. Didn’t even meet his eyes.

Just wrapped her fingers around the cracked plastic and left the room like it might explode if she breathed too hard near it.

But the next morning—she was back.

Stormed in with her jaw tight, hair still wet from the basin behind her cabin, shoes tracking dust across the tile.

The camera was in one hand. A film pack in the other.

She didn’t say help me.

She didn’t have to.

She’d stood in front of Ethan with that look—the one that said this fucking thing matters more than I want it to, so don’t screw it up.

He hadn’t teased her.
Hadn’t asked her why she wanted to use it.
Hadn’t even looked smug about being needed.

Just took it gently. Turned it over. Showed her how to load the film.

Slowly. Carefully. Like it was delicate.
Like it deserved to be treated like something that had survived.

Now, back at the workbench, the memory pulled a tight thread behind her ribs.

Ellie didn’t smile.

But she didn’t scowl either.

Her fingers pressed the next label flat against the glass, thumb tracing the edge once, then letting go.

Outside, the wind shifted.

Inside, nothing moved but her breath.

“You remember I had to come back and ask how to load the film, right?”

Her tone was dry. Defensive, even now. But underneath it, something like amusement stirred.

Ethan’s mouth curved—barely. The kind of smile that didn't reach his eyes, but warmed the lines around them.

“I do,” he said. “You were very... gracious about it.”

That pulled a sound out of her. A rough, single-syllable snort.

“I called you a pretentious bastard.”

“Hmm.” He nodded faintly, still peering into the microscope. “Yes. With conviction, if I recall correctly.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just shook her head once, fighting the corner of a smile.

“Still think it’s stupid there’s no screen.”

Ethan didn’t look up. But something about the angle of his voice shifted—softer now. Less clinical. Anchored in that quiet part of him she was starting to recognize.

The part that didn’t need to win.
Didn’t need to explain everything away.

“That’s the point,” he said. “You don’t get to check if it’s perfect. You take the shot…”

A pause.

Then—

“...and wait for the truth to show itself.”

Ellie froze—not completely. Not in a way anyone else might notice.

But the motion of her hand slowed. Her fingers hovered over the next label just a moment too long.

Her throat went tight.

There was something in that sentence.

Too neat. Too true.

Like it knew her.

Like it had been following her since Salt Lake, since Jackson, since the fire she never put out.

She didn’t look up. Didn’t answer.

Just grabbed the next vial. Pressed the label on a little too hard. Let the silence take the weight instead.

And Ethan—like always—didn’t press.

She picked up another vial.

Turned it toward the light.

Wrote the label slower this time, her fingers suddenly too aware of how they moved—of the slight tremor in her grip, the pressure of the marker against paper, the smear of ink near the corner.

The silence stretched again.

Not tense.
Not cold.
Just... wide.

For Ethan, it seemed natural.
Effortless.

Like the lab knew how to hold quiet for him.

Like silence was another tool on the bench—something you calibrated, adjusted, used with precision. Like water, or heat, or time.

He breathed like he’d been doing this for decades. Like stillness wasn’t just something he tolerated, but something he trusted.

But for Ellie, it was never that easy.

Silence had teeth.
It pressed in behind her ribs.
It made her remember things she’d buried shallow.

She hated how easy he made it look.

This patience.
This way of being still without coming undone.

Like he’d already done the hard part.
Like he’d outlived the storms and made peace with the wreckage.
Like he’d survived in a way she wasn’t sure she could.

Maybe that’s what made her feel smaller around him.

Not weak.

Just unfinished.

She was still learning how to hold the quiet without flinching.

Still pretending she had time at all.

___

The silence had returned.

But softer, this time.
Less like pressure.
More like breath.

Whatever weight the camera memory had stirred was settling again, curling back into the quiet rhythm of her work.

Ellie was halfway through a new tray.

Her fingers moved on their own now—lift, check, label, place. The marker cap sat tucked between her knuckles, a little smear of black ink ghosting the edge of her thumb.

She didn’t mind.

There was something honest about the mess.

She glanced up—not on purpose, just following motion—and caught Ethan adjusting the light on the microscope.

His movements were careful. Intentional. He reached for the dial with the same precision he used with everything—nothing wasted, nothing rushed.

She noticed the small things.

The way his brow furrowed just slightly when he shifted through focus levels.
The subtle tension that pulled at his jaw—not frustration exactly, more like concentration with a history behind it.

He’d been staring at the same slide for a while.
Too long, maybe.

Ellie didn’t know what it was.
Didn’t know what it meant.

But something about the way he looked at it—like it might talk back if he watched long enough—sparked something in her chest.

Not obligation.
Not usefulness.

Just curiosity.

Real. Quiet. Hers.

“That one giving you trouble?”

She asked it without looking directly at him.

Voice casual. Light.
Like the question had just fallen out of her.

But she felt the shift the second it left her mouth.
Felt how much she meant it.

Ethan didn’t startle.
Didn’t flinch.

But the shift was there—subtle, immediate.

He looked at her.

Not like she’d interrupted.
Not like she’d said something silly or out of place.

But like she’d surprised him.

“No,” he said, voice even. Measured. “Just... changing faster than expected.”

Ellie’s brow furrowed.

“Changing how?”

Ethan didn’t reach for a chart. Didn’t open a file or rattle off a lecture.

Instead, he picked up a small print photo beside him—a faded magnified image, the kind taken directly through the microscope. Edges curled slightly from handling. He held it between two fingers and turned it toward her.

“This is what it looked like six hours ago.”

Then he nodded toward the lens.

“Now? It’s reshaped most of its hyphal network. Almost doubled the density. That grey you’d see if you looked through here—it's not decay. It’s shielding.”

Ellie leaned closer, instinctively.
Elbows against the table. Eyes narrowing just enough.

She wasn’t pretending to understand everything.

But she wanted to.

And Ethan spoke like he trusted that.

“Shielding?” she asked.

“Cordyceps will sometimes adapt their outer layers when they detect environmental stress—light, heat, even chemicals in the slide medium. But this strain’s doing it faster than it should. Like it’s anticipating the stress before it happens.”

She stared at the slide. The pale circle under the light. The shape she couldn’t fully see but now imagined alive, aware, defensive.

“Like it knows you’re watching.”

The words left her before she could edit them.

And Ethan—

He paused.

His lips parted slightly. His gaze shifted, not in disbelief, but in… recognition.

Like something she said had bumped against a corner of his thinking he hadn’t touched yet.

“That’s not too far off, actually.”

He said it quietly. Not indulgently.
Not like Hersch would have.

Not with a smirk or a scoff or a sideways correction.

Just simple truth.
Acknowledgment.

Respect.

Ellie didn’t answer.

But something in her chest settled.
A small knot loosened.

She didn’t feel like a kid being humored.
She didn’t feel like a mistake waiting to happen.

She just felt… included.

And that meant more than she knew how to admit.

Ellie smirked faintly, one corner of her mouth tugging just enough to be noticed.
But it didn’t reach her eyes.

“What does that mean?”

Ethan leaned back slightly, his hands still resting gently on the table. He wasn’t just answering—he was thinking, sorting through his language as he went, like her question had nudged something sideways inside him.

“Cordyceps doesn’t have a brain, Ellie,” he said, voice soft but sure. “But it responds to stress as if it does. It adapts. Quickly. There are strains that shift their development based on environmental pressure—not just reacting, but... adjusting, like they remember the last time they were threatened.”

He paused. Tilted his head slightly, as if still piecing it together.
Still letting her question work on him.

“Clusters grown in identical conditions can behave differently, depending on what happened to their predecessors. As if they carry forward an imprint of failure.”

Ellie blinked.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the next vial.
She didn’t label it.
Didn’t move.

“They remember?”

“Not like we do. Not consciously. But their survival instincts leave a mark. It’s in the structure. In the way they grow. You can see it—watch it, even. Sometimes within hours.”

That landed.

Low in her gut.
A dull twist.

Because something about that felt too familiar.

The idea of a thing that didn’t think, didn’t speak—
But still learned.
Still carried every injury forward like a roadmap.

Still adapted just enough not to die the same way twice.

She swallowed.

“Sounds like revenge,” she muttered.

Ethan glanced at her again—quick, then longer.

And this time, there was no smile.
No amused twitch of his mouth.

Just a pause.

Stillness.

Like he was recalibrating.

Not just his view of the fungus.

But his view of her.

“Is that what you see in it?” he asked.

There was no judgment in his tone.
But something careful had entered it.

A new kind of attention.

Ellie didn’t answer right away.

She looked down at the print photo again.

At the bloom of fungal threads—soft at the edge, dense at the center, curling in on themselves like they were hiding something sharp.

“I see something that doesn’t stop,” she said quietly.
“No matter what it wrecks.”

The words hung in the air like spores.

Unmoving.
Unsettled.
Alive in ways neither of them knew how to name.

They let the silence stretch between them—
Not cold.
Not comforting.

Just true.

The silence lingered.

Not tense.
Not empty.

Just... necessary.

Like the air between them needed to settle around what had been said.

Ellie didn’t rush to fill it.
Didn’t look away.

Her fingers idly brushed the edge of the tray, thumb tracing a tiny chip in the plastic—something to anchor herself with. Something real.

Then, finally—

“So…” she said, her voice lower now, the sharpness gone, worn down to something quieter. “You study this stuff full-time?”

It wasn’t sarcastic.
It wasn’t defensive.

It was something closer to real curiosity.
And maybe—just maybe—the beginning of trust.

Ethan looked up, slowly, and the faint smile that pulled at his mouth wasn’t smug or self-satisfied.

It was relief.

Like the shift back to something simpler was a kindness he hadn’t expected.

“Yes,” he said. “Mycologist, technically. I studied pathogenic fungi. Taught for a while. Before everything.”

His eyes didn’t drift when he said it.

Didn’t glaze over like people did when they said before and meant back when the world was something else.

He said it like it still mattered.
Like that version of him still lived somewhere beneath the lab coat and exhaustion.

Ellie tilted her head slightly.

“You taught?”

Ethan gave a short breath of something close to a laugh.

“Yes. Students. Mostly medical. Some research fellows. I ran a small lab at Cambridge.”

That caught her off guard.

“Like… England Cambridge?”

Ethan’s smile widened just enough to show amusement, but not mockery.

“Cambridge, Massachusetts,” he corrected gently. “MIT, technically. Though I spent more time in the field than I did in lecture halls.”

Ellie blinked, then gave a small, almost sheepish scoff.

“Still sounds fancy.”

“Only until you’re ankle-deep in fungal rot at three in the morning,” Ethan said, adjusting the slide again with the same calm precision. “Then it’s just work.”

But she caught the shift in his posture.
Not pride.
But something close to memory.

Like it wasn’t just a title.
It was a piece of himself he hadn’t had to talk about in years.

And maybe didn’t expect anyone to ask about ever again.

She thought about how far that felt from anyone she’d ever known.

Joel never talked about before.
Tommy barely did.

And her?

She didn’t have a before.
Not like that.

Just afters.
One after another.

“Is that how you met my mom?”

Her voice was quieter now.

Not uncertain.
But like she was crossing a line she wasn’t sure was real until she’d already stepped over it.

Ethan didn’t answer right away.

His fingers adjusted the focus dial with a kind of practiced slowness. Not because the slide needed it—but because he did.

She watched his jaw shift, something thoughtful—or reluctant—ticking behind his expression.

“That’s part of it,” he said eventually.
“She was assigned to our unit for a few weeks. But she made herself... difficult to transfer.”

That same half-smile tugged at his mouth. Soft. Pulled from someplace far off.

“She had a talent for making herself indispensable, even when she didn’t mean to.”

The smile faded.
Not all at once.
Just enough to remind Ellie that whatever warmth he carried about her mother was also shadowed by something else.

“My grandparents knew her, actually,” he added.

That made her blink.

“What?”

Ethan gave a soft shrug. Still focused on the lens. Still not meeting her eyes, like this story was easier if he kept his hands busy.

“Back in Illinois. Before college. She worked a summer at the community garden two streets over from them. Broke three of the tools the first week. Argued with the supervisor. Kept sneaking food to kids who didn’t sign up for rations.”

“Sounds about right,” Ellie muttered.

Ethan’s mouth curled again.

“They called her Trouble.”

“They nicknamed her?”

“Not to her face.” He chuckled under his breath. “But yes. My grandmother said it like it was both a complaint and a compliment. 'That Anna girl—she’s Trouble, but she means well.'”

Ellie looked down.

That name—Trouble—sank into her chest like a stone.

A piece of her mother that sounded real.

Not as a myth. Not as a soldier. Not as a symbol.

Just a stubborn, reckless girl breaking garden tools and arguing with strangers because something in her couldn’t not care.

“So you knew her back then? Before... all the lab coats and science talk?”

Ethan nodded slowly.

“Before all of it,” he said. “We weren’t close then. Just crossed paths. But she stayed in my life, one way or another.”

He didn’t explain how.
Didn’t push the edges of that history.

But Ellie could hear it anyway—
In the softness of his voice.
In the weight behind his pause.

Anna wasn’t just someone he worked with.
She was someone he remembered.

And somehow, that made the space between them feel heavier.
Not bad.
Just full.

Like maybe, for once, Ellie wasn’t the only one carrying ghosts.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.
Just… heavy.

Ellie leaned back a little, her shoulder brushing the metal edge of the stool.
Her thumb found the corner of a tray and tapped it once. Twice.

She was still thinking about Trouble.
About her mother breaking shovels and rules.

About the fact that someone had seen that side of her and remembered it.

And somehow, that made the whole thing feel more real.
More like Anna had actually existed.

Not just as a name.
Not just as a body in a letter.

But as a person.
Like Ellie.
Flawed. Furious.

Too much for the world and still never enough to save it.

She swallowed that thought.
Let it settle behind her teeth.

Then:

“And now you’re trying to kill the thing that killed the world.”

It wasn’t an accusation.
Not yet.
But the shape of it was there.

Ethan didn’t answer right away.
Just looked back into the microscope.

When he spoke, it was quiet. But certain.

“Not kill it. Understand it.”

That was when Ellie’s posture shifted.

Only slightly.

But enough.

The tilt of her head. The set of her jaw.

Curiosity... giving way to something sharper.

That word—understand—crackled against her skin like static.

Because she knew that word.

Knew what came after it.

“We just want to understand…”

They’d said that at Salt Lake.
At the Firefly base.
Before they cut into her without asking.

Before they told Joel the lie.

Before she woke up and realized her immunity wasn’t a miracle.
It was a cost.

Understand was what they said when they meant sacrifice.

When they meant you.

Her lips pressed into a tight line.
Her gaze lowered, but not in surrender.

More like a shield.

A silent reminder to herself not to trust too much.

Not even here.
Not even now.

___

A few more labels.
A few more ticks of the pen.

The marker’s scent had dulled in her nose hours ago, but the sound—the scratch of tip against matte label—still grounded her.

The tray in front of her had begun to empty.
Four, maybe five vials left.

The task should’ve felt satisfying.
But something had shifted.

The smudged ink in the corner of the sheet—where her wrist kept dragging across Ethan’s handwriting—blurred more than just letters.

It blurred her focus.

Her fingers moved on instinct, but her mind…
It kept circling.

Not around the samples.
Not around the science.

But him.

Ethan.

She caught herself glancing sideways.

Not openly.
Not with purpose.

Just a flick of her eyes.
Like checking for motion in the corner of a dark room.

Or maybe for danger.

Or maybe for… something she didn’t understand but hadn’t stopped thinking about.

He was leaning forward again.

Shoulders slightly curved, body still—except for the subtle motion of his hand adjusting the fine focus.

His touch was steady. Careful.

Not delicate in a weak way, but in the way people handled things that mattered.

And it reminded her—suddenly, sharply—of how Joel used to string his guitar.

Quiet. Focused.

Not showy.
Not rushed.

Just steady.

Like the act itself had weight.
Like it deserved his full attention.

And Ethan…
He worked the same way.

Like every slide held a secret.
Like every twitch of the lens was a question he was patient enough to ask.

And that patience—
That quiet curiosity—
It shouldn’t have bothered her.

But it did.

Because he hadn’t gotten angry.

Not when she accused the fungus of revenge.
Not when she threw her guard up at his word—understand.

He hadn’t defended himself.
Hadn’t tried to prove her wrong.

He just let it sit.

Let her sit with it.

And that, somehow, unnerved her more than if he’d argued.

Because it meant he was listening.

It meant he wasn’t trying to change her mind.

He was just… waiting.

And maybe that was worse.

Because now she wasn’t sure what she believed.

Not about cordyceps.
Not about him.
Not even about herself.

A silence settled again.
Not heavy.
Not hostile.
But curious.

Like the quiet wasn’t waiting for something to break—
But for something to begin.

Ellie wasn’t sure when that had changed.

Wasn’t sure when the silence between them had stopped being armor and started feeling like something else.
A low hum. A space held open.

She glanced sideways.

Not just to study his hands this time.
Not just to keep tabs on the movement.

But because she wanted to know.

What he saw.
What he thought.
Why he never flinched the way other people did when she asked too much, or said the wrong thing.

Her fingers drummed lightly against the bench.

Her mouth opened—then closed.

And then, without looking directly at him, she let the words go.

“What are you looking at now?”

It wasn’t forced.

It wasn’t a test.

Just a question.

Clean. Small. Almost gentle.

Like something she'd picked up off the floor and didn’t quite know how to hold.

And she didn’t brace for the answer this time.
Didn’t steel herself against disappointment.

She just… waited.

Let the space stay open.

Let him decide what to fill it with.

Ethan didn’t look at her.

Not right away.

But his fingers stilled on the adjustment dial.

A soft click echoed through the lab as he locked it into place, the quiet somehow louder than it should’ve been.

He stayed like that for a moment—
Not frozen.
Just… still.

Like he was waiting to feel the shape of the answer before saying it out loud.

Ellie felt the tension wind back into her spine.
Not tight.
But coiled.

She wasn’t sure what she expected—
Some long lecture?
A sigh?
Another soft, quiet deflection like before?

But what she got was smaller.

“Strain thirty-seven. Variant five.”

His voice was low. Almost… cautious.

Like he knew exactly what kind of terrain he was stepping into.

“It’s adapting faster than the last. Temperature shifts, chemical resistance. It changes structure in under twelve hours.”

He paused there.

Not because he was finished.
But because he knew the next part mattered more.

Ellie’s fingers curled slightly around the edge of the bench.
Her eyes stayed fixed on his side of the table, but her focus drifted—
Into the tension coiled just under his words.

Because she could hear it.

The care.

The way he was trying—actively trying—not to provoke her.

Not because he was afraid of her reaction.

But because he respected it.

And somehow, that only made her more unsure.

“So what? That’s... good news?” she muttered, the edge creeping back into her voice. “The fungus gets smarter and we’re supposed to be excited?”

Ethan’s eyes flicked up, briefly, but he didn’t correct her.
Didn’t push back.

He just nodded—slow, quiet.

“It depends on how you look at it.”

Ellie’s jaw tightened.

There it is, she thought.
The first step on the path that always ended in someone asking her to understand the thing that ruined her life.

But Ethan didn’t go further.
Not yet.

He just waited.
Patient.
Still.
Letting her decide if she wanted to take another step into this conversation—
Or walk out of it.

Ellie frowned, the line between her brows settling deep.

“That’s… fast, right?”

The words came out too light. Too neutral.
And she hated that.

Because this wasn’t just some trivia fact to her.
It was the thing that hollowed out cities.
That took her mother.
That took Joel.

But Ethan—
That calm, quiet, maddening man—
Just gave the softest twitch of a smile.

Not amusement.
Not pride.

Something more like—
Recognition.

“It’s terrifying,” he said, almost thoughtfully. “Which usually means it’s interesting.”

Her lips parted, her head tilting slightly toward the slide trays near his elbow.

“Is that bad?”

Not sarcastic.
Not yet.

She was trying to find his line—
To see where his steadiness cracked.

To see if he’d feel it the way she did.

Ethan glanced up then.

Just briefly.

But it wasn’t casual.
It was intentional.
Like he needed to read her before answering.

To make sure she wasn’t asking just to fight.

And the worst part—
The part she didn’t know how to name—
Was that she didn’t even know herself.

“It depends,” he said.

Then—carefully, gently—

“Understanding how fast it mutates tells us where its limits are.”
“Or if it has any.”

Ellie looked down at the black ink smeared across her wrist.

Limits.

That word tasted wrong in her mouth.
Like hope disguised as logic.
Like a promise she wasn’t ready to be offered again.

She wanted to yell at him.
Shake the microscope.
Slam the slide trays into the floor and ask if that was part of his goddamn scientific method.

But she didn’t.

Because his voice hadn’t gone flat.
Hadn’t gone clinical.

He wasn’t trying to win anything.
He wasn’t pushing.

He was just… answering.

And that made it worse.

Because it meant he believed it.

Not in the way the Fireflies did.
Not in the way doctors with scalpels and masks had once looked at her like she was an open door.

No—Ethan believed in limits.
In patterns.
In learning from what destroyed you.

And Ellie—
She didn’t know if she could.

Not yet.

Ellie sat back slightly, her spine brushing the cold edge of the stool’s backrest.

Her hand still held the vial.
The marker hovered above the label, ink bleeding just slightly from the tip where she’d forgotten to move.

She wasn’t writing anymore.
Wasn’t moving.

Just… holding the weight of the question building behind her teeth.

And when it came out, it didn’t sound like an attack.

It sounded like something she needed to ask before it ate her alive.

“And if it doesn’t?”

Her voice barely rose above the hum of the lab.

No anger.
No edge.

Just the barest shape of fear, hiding under the grit.

Ethan looked at her fully now.

Not over the rim of his glasses.
Not from the corner of his eye.

But fully.

And there was no judgment in it.
No surprise.
No warning.

Just quiet, human honesty.

“Then we need to know that, too.”

Simple.

No sermon.
No bright-eyed conviction.
No cruel optimism.

Just the truth.

It hit her harder than anything else he could’ve said.

Because he meant it.
And she couldn’t fight it.
Not when it was that plain.

That silence returned—
But it had changed its shape.

It wasn’t hiding things anymore.
It was holding them.

Ellie looked back down at the half-tagged vial.

She finished the label, hands steady but slower now.

And she didn’t look at Ethan again.

Because she wasn’t just watching anymore.

She was listening.

And that—
That scared her more than anything he’d said.

Because the more she listened…
The less she hated him.

And the less she hated him…
The harder it became to hold on to the story she’d built about what science meant.

What understanding cost.

Ellie didn’t answer right away.

She tagged the last vial with careful fingers—maybe too careful—and set it gently in the tray, like it might shatter if she dropped it too hard.

Then wiped her palm on her thigh.
Out of habit.
Not need.

But her eyes didn’t leave him.

Not this time.

“So what’s next?”

The words came out sharper than she intended.
Like they’d been scraped raw on the way out.

“You wait to see if it grows wings?”

Ethan didn’t flinch.
Didn’t smirk.

Just took another slide from the rack, turned it over in his gloved fingers like it was part of a ritual.

When he spoke, it was with that same soft cadence he always used.

Not detached.
Not rehearsed.

Just measured.

“We test its resilience. Cold exposure. Antiviral saturation. Radiation. We record. Compare. If it keeps evolving this fast…”

A pause.

“Maybe we isolate what’s driving it.”

Ellie’s jaw tightened.
Her fingers twitched on the edge of the tray.

And then—

“And then what?”

Her voice cracked slightly—just enough to be noticed—before she bit it down and steadied herself.

“You write a paper? Present it at a conference?”

That made Ethan pause.

Not because the jab landed.
Not because it surprised him.

But because he heard what was underneath it.

What the hell is this for?
What the hell are we still doing?

And instead of snapping back—
Instead of lecturing—
He just set the slide down.

His eyes met hers again.

And for once, he looked tired.

Not physically.

But in the soul-deep way of someone who’d been asking the same question for longer than she’d been alive.

“No papers,” he said.
“No conferences.”

He folded his gloves slowly, placing them aside.

“Just answers. Maybe not the kind anyone wants. But the kind we need.”

He looked at her then.

Not sharply.
Not startled.

Just… clearly.

Like he wasn’t just seeing her—
He was reading what her body was saying louder than her words.

The edge rising in her shoulders.
The way her back had gone rigid.
The fists clenched in her lap without her even noticing.

“Ellie,” he said, careful now. Quiet. But firm.
“I know this isn’t theoretical for you.”

And that was the wrong thing to say.
Or maybe just said too soon.
Too gently.

Because Ellie’s body jolted—
Like the words struck a place she’d buried and boarded up long ago.

She stood fast.
The stool scraped backward with a screech that felt too loud for the lab’s usual hush.

“No, you don’t,” she snapped.

Her voice hit the wall. Echoed.
Didn’t sound like her.
Sounded younger.
Sounded trapped.

“You think you do, but you don’t. You get to sit here with your fucking microscope and talk about strains and mutations like it’s a puzzle. Like it’s some harmless problem that just needs patience and notes and… and control.”

Her breath caught. But she didn’t stop.