A slow exhale leaves my lungs. “Okay,” I murmur. “You moved it.”
That’s all.
I walk over, pick it up, turn it in my hands like I’ll find some explanation hidden in the metal and glass. Nothing’s missing. Nothing’s broken. Just… moved.
I glance toward the door. Still closed. Still locked.
My jaw tightens. I step over, test the handle.
Solid.
“See?” I mutter. “You’re fine.”
I drop the camera back onto the table—this time deliberately crooked—and head into the kitchen. Coffee first. Logic second.
The kettle hisses as I fill it, the sound sharp in the quiet. Too sharp. I don’t like how quiet it is.
I flick my gaze toward the window. The trees stand still, tall and unmoving, like they’re waiting for something.
“Stop,” I say under my breath.
You wanted remote. You wanted silence.
Congratulations.
The kettle clicks off, and I pour the water, watching the steam curl up into the air. Grounding. Normal.
I take a sip and wince at the heat, letting it burn a path down my throat.
Good. Something real. I carry the mug back into the living area—and stop. The door is open. Just a few inches. My heartbeat stutters, then slams hard against my ribs.
“No,” I breathe, already moving.
I reach the door in two strides and yank it shut, twisting the lock until it clicks. My hand stays on it longer than necessary, palm flat against the wood.
I know I locked it.
I know I did.
I step back slowly, eyes scanning the room. Nothing out of place. My gaze snaps to the table. The camera is still crooked. Exactly how I left it.
My chest tightens.
“Wind,” I say, forcing the word out. “Old cabin. Doors shift.”
Except there’s no breeze. Not a single branch outside is moving.
I drag a hand down my face and let out a breath that sounds steadier than I feel. “You’re spiraling.”
I set the coffee down harder than necessary and grab my jacket. Outside the air is fresh.
That’s what I need.
I unlock the door again—slow this time—and pull it open, stepping out onto the porch. The cold hits me immediately, sharp and grounding.
I step down into the dirt, scanning the clearing out of habit now. Nothing. Just trees. Stillness. The same stretch of ground where I saw the footprints last night looks undisturbed. Like it’s been smoothed over. Like nothing was ever there. I frown as my stomach twists.
I crouch slightly, running my fingers over the dirt. It’s firm. Cold. No clear impressions.
