If I didn’t, the cold would kill me before anything else did.
Promising myself I’d return—better prepared, better dressed, because there was no way I was giving up like this, I turned back, teeth clattering so hard they hurt. My steps were uneven, my boots sliding on the frozen rocks as I tried to retrace them. But everything looked different now. It was colder, greyer, and unfamiliar.
I kept moving. But I was swaying, staggering, and falling.
Everything after that blurred.
I had no idea how I got back to the mouth of The Crater. No idea how I made it past the sign, or how I found enough strength to call the driver. The memory splintered in flashes—fingers on my phone, a voice I didn’t remember using, the blurred shape of a car pulling up, the road, and everything in between.
The next thing I remembered clearly was my bed.
I was wrapped in every blanket I owned. My boots still on, my clothes half-frozen, my face stinging with heat as it returned in waves.
It felt like being drunk; my body wanted to shut down but my mind kept flickering back on for seconds at a time, just long enough to remember where I was.
I must’ve fallen asleep in the evening and slept through the night. Because when I finally opened my eyes again, sunlight was slipping through my curtains.
It was afternoon. The next damn day.
CHAPTER FIVE
SANORA
I spent the entire afternoon buried in my notes and glued to my computer, documenting every detail I could remember from my stay near The Crater. I wrote like a woman possessed—everything including the cryptid-looking man who’d stared at me like I was a walking mistake. I described how the cold was so intense it felt like my brain had frozen solid and rebooted halfway through a thought.
Even hours later, I still wasn’t fully back to myself. My body trembled occasionally, and every time I blinked, I felt like I was remembering how to be human all over again. At some point, I attempted to make pancakes but only realised halfway through that I’d been whisking the batter directly inside the pan I planned to fry it in. Earlier, I’d opened the fridge four separate times without taking anything out.
During the early evening, I wrapped myself in another oversized sweaters and stepped out again. The articles I’d found online were either watered down or altered by someone who clearly never stood near the damn thing.
I needed to know if the temperature could actually kill someone. If The Crater was unreachable because the surrounding cold made it impossible for any living creature to get close. Because I wasn’t evenanywhere close to it, and it still felt like I’d died and come back to life.
The bookstore in Nimorran was my best shot. If anyone had documented the real effects of approaching The Crater, it would be there.
When I stepped inside, the bell above the door gave a jingle. Weeny Man glanced up from the book he was hunched over and smiled like he’d been expecting me.
I returned the smile, giving him a small nod. “I’m not done with the books,” I said quickly. “I’ll return them as soon as—”
He waved it off. “Take your time reading them.”
Then, stepping out from behind the counter, he tilted his head and gave me a look that was part curiosity, part mischief. “So, what brings you in? Looking for something specific? Or are you just here to grace an old man with your company?”
I shook my head, steeling myself for what I really wanted to say. Instead of diving straight into it—because I knew the word “Crater” would set him off like a triggered trap—I walked over to the chair by the window and sat, rubbing my palms together.
“Why are you here?” I asked finally. “Out of all places in the world, why Nimorran?”
His smile faded. He came to sit across from me, and his eyes dropped slightly before he answered. “I’m from Nimorran.”
My brows shot up. “What? You—you were born here?”
He nodded, exhaling through his nose. “My predecessors grew up and died here. All of us rooted in the same soil.”
“That’s…” I blinked, the gears in my head shifting. “That’s actually amazing. That means you know things, real things, about this town. You probably know the kind of history people don’t even write down—”
“I’m not answering questions about that thing,” he cut in flatly, already knowing where I was going. “Just letting you know.”
I groaned, actually groaned. “Weeny Man!”
He scratched at his greying beard, unmoved.
