ONE
Logan
I takea deep breath as I finish sanding the arm of the rocking chair and straighten up from the workbench.
My back immediately protests.
“Damn,” I mutter, pressing a hand to the ache.
I roll my shoulders, trying to work the stiffness out.Spending hours bent over wood will do that to a man, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.The scent of sawdust hangs thick in the air of my workshop, and sunlight slants through the open barn doors, lighting up the tiny golden particles floating around me.
This is my favorite time of day.The world is quiet and still.Exactly the way I like it.
I run my palm over the smooth arm of the rocking chair one more time, checking for rough spots.The grain of the oak curves in soft waves beneath my hand, and satisfaction settles in my chest.
Perfect.
I built this one for a couple in town who just had their first baby.A sturdy rocker for late nights and tired parents.It’ll last for generations.
That’s what I like about woodworking.You make something solid.Something real.Something that stays.
Unlike people.
My cabin sits on the far edge of Midnight Haven land, tucked deep into the trees where most folks don’t bother coming.That’s intentional.I built the place myself years ago and made sure it was far enough away that nobody could show up uninvited.
Peace and quiet.That’s all I need.
I set the rocking chair aside so the finish can dry.Wiping my hands on a rag, I step outside into the late afternoon sun.
The mountains stretch out around me, with endless forest rolling over the hills.Pine and cedar fill the air, and the wind rustles through the treetops.
Most people would find the silence lonely.I find it perfect.Except today.Today something feels… off.
My bear has been restless since sunrise.He’s pacing in the back of my mind like a caged animal.
Run,he grumbles.
“I know,” I mutter under my breath.
Usually, when he gets like this, it means he needs to stretch his legs.Shifting and running through the woods usually settles him down, but something about the sensation twisting in my chest doesn’t quite match that explanation.
Still, a run wouldn’t hurt.
I step down off the porch and move into the yard behind the cabin, rolling my neck as I walk.The grass is soft under my boots, and the forest line waits beyond the clearing.
Then I stop.
My bear goes completely still inside me, and we both tense, searching for what has the hairs on the back of my neck standing up.
Every muscle in my body tightens.
Something’s wrong.
The woods have gone too quiet.No birds chirp, no squirrels run around, no breeze rustles the leaves.Only silence.
I slowly turn my head, scanning the tree line.
Probably nothing,I tell my bear.
