Like truth, perhaps.
Eventually, Mara stands. Tests her weight. Nods.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Ready.”
We continue climbing.
I guide us higher, following paths that appear in my mind like recalled memory. The settlement pulls at me now—not like the earlier call, but steady. Constant. A compass pointing home.
Home.
Is it home? I don’t remember it. Can’t picture it clearly.
But my body knows. My instincts recognize it.
Perhaps there, I’ll find answers.
Perhaps there, someone will know who I am. What I am.
And perhaps there, I’ll finally understand what Mara is hiding. What those operatives represent. What the pull connects me to.
The pieces will arrange themselves eventually.
They have to.
Because the alternative—that I’ll remain lost in this fog of questions without answers—is unacceptable.
I need to know.
Who I am. What I am. Why my body responds to distant calls without my permission. Why holding this woman’s hand feels both foreign and inevitable.
The sun drops toward the western peaks. Wind picks up, cold enough that Mara shivers despite the vest I gave her.
I find what I’m looking for as dusk approaches—a shallow overhang, more shelter than cave, but defensible. Good sightlines. Single approach.
“Here,” I say. “We stop for the night.”
Mara nods, too tired to argue.
I build a fire while she rests. Gather wood. Check the perimeter.
And I watch her.
Watch the way firelight catches in her hair—blue bleeding to dark at the roots. The way she moves with unconscious grace despite exhaustion and injury. The quick intelligence in her eyes.
She’s beautiful in ways I have no context for. No comparison point.
Yet I know.
I know because something in my chest responds to her presence like recognition. Like my body remembers what my mind has forgotten.
Dangerous territory.
I force my attention back to practical matters. Wood. Water. Food, if I can find any this high.
But my awareness keeps circling back to her.
