The kitchen occupies the opposite corner, compact enough to cross in two steps. A wooden counter, scarred by knives, stretches across one wall. A tiny metal sink sits beneath a narrow frame that looks only onto the mountainside and sky.
I move toward the kitchen, drawn by a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the counter. Anxiety churns low in my stomach, like a gnawing parasite that refuses to be ignored.
I grab the bottle, find an empty glass, and pour myself a drink. The sound of liquid hitting the glass slices through the quiet, mingling with the soft crackle of the fire.
I lift the glass to my lips and take a long sip, the ember-hot liquid burning its way down my throat. When I open my eyes, a short hallway catches my attention—a passage barely wider than the shelves that line it—leading to a small bedroom tucked at the back.
I finish the rest of the glass and step into the bedroom, scanning every corner. The bed is simple—a wooden frame piled with thick blankets. On the bedside table rests a lantern and a chipped porcelain cup. I pick it up, turning it in my hands, examining the imperfections.
Gradually, the alcohol seeps into my veins, loosening the tension knotted in my chest. A dry chuckle rises, and my eyes widen as a thought claws through the chaos. Before I even process it, I let the cup go. It smashes against the floor, sharp shards scattering like scattered teeth.
Anger blooms inside me—raw and painfully familiar. All I seem capable of is leaving destruction in my wake, tearing through anything delicate, anything that carries a story.
I turn slowly, surveying the room again. Every surface, every corner, every creaking floorboard tells a story not of comfort, but of survival.
He took his time to find this place, to shape it, to make it livable. Cozy, even. A refuge carved out for himself while I was out there shoving memories into the darkest corners of my mind and chasing an illusion I never wanted to chase.
Anger sparks brighter in my chest, a match hitting a trail of gasoline, racing fast before it detonates. A muscle jumps along my jaw as I yank open the drawers and tear through them. Then, I climb onto the bed, hands already shaking with fury, and rip the pillows apart. Dozens of white feathers burst upward in a frantic blizzard, drifting and spinning like snow caught in a storm.
I seize the blanket next, pull the knife from my pocket, and slice through it in one clean, vicious stroke before I drive the blade into the mattress, over and over, until the stuffing bleeds out in soft, ruined clumps.
A white-hot inferno fills every hollow inside me. I’m no longer steering my own body—I’m just watching from somewhere deep under the heat as the windows shatter under my fist, glass skittering across the floor.
I storm back into the kitchen, hands grabbing whatever they land on. Dishes. Metal tins. Bottles of alcohol. Jars of herbs and nuts and dried things he collected, arranged, and curated. I fling them, crush them, smash them, each sound cracking open something raw inside me.
So neatly placed. So fucking tranquil.
I wanted this with Estella. A quiet place far from the world—far from blood, far from noise—somewhere we could build something that lasted.
I never got that.
So why the fuck should anyone else?
I tear clothes from their hangers, slash them into ribbons, break more glass, and ruin anything that my hands can find.
Time distorts, and the world narrows. Everything goes silent except for the sound of my breathing and the tearing, breaking, ripping. For the first time in too long, I let my emotions crawl out of the cage I’ve kept them in. I’ve drowned them with alcohol, buried them under fantasies, shoved them into the cracks—but now, finally, they’re free.
When the frenzy burns itself out, I collapse onto the chair I chose earlier, lungs heaving. I pull the gun from my waistband and aim it at the door, settling in to wait. My gaze skims across the wreckage, and something like small relief slides through me.
The room is in fragments scattered across the floor, the walls, and even the ceiling. It looks exactly like the chaos that’s been clawing inside my ribs for years.
My breathing slows. Outside, through the ragged holes where windows used to be, I hear the soft bleating from the small farm. Inside, it’s just the fire, the creaking bones of the house, and a stillness that can’t exist anywhere else.
Time stretches taut, every second dragging as if the air itself is holding its breath. Then, a groan drifts from the hinge, and the door swings open with a careful inevitability.
He steps across the threshold, and I tighten my grip on the gun, knuckles whitening, as a jolt of tension races like wildfire through every fiber of my body.
He freezes the moment he sees me, but only for a breath. Then, he steps inside, slow and steady, his gaze drifting over the wreckage. I watch his face, waiting for some flicker of shock, anger, fear—anything—but his expression stays maddeningly blank.
He surveys the chaos with the indifference of a man checking the weather, as if having a stranger track him down and tear his home apart is just another Tuesday.
“I see I wasn’t invited to the party,” he rasps, years of smoke woven into the sound.
I keep my eyes locked on his and gesture to the floor with the barrel of my gun. “Put everything down. Then sit.”
All he has is the backpack, a dead animal slung over one shoulder, and the hunting rifle in his hand.
Slowly, almost lazily, he obeys. He keeps eye contact the entire time, and no matter how long I stare into those dull grey irises, I find nothing there.
