A voice. Low. Familiar. Too close.
What a weak little bastard.
My blood went ice-cold.
I stopped so abruptly Ameliaalmost ran into me. “What the fuck?”
I stared into the trees. The voice came again, clearer.Always were. Always will be.
Amelia whispered, “Caiden?”
I didn’t answer. Because if I answered, I’d confirm it was real. And if it was real, then I was losing my mind. I took a step toward the sound, eyes scanning between trunks, searching for a shape. A man. A shadow. Anything.
Nothing. Just trees. Just wind. Just the forest breathing.
My heart hammered. Anger rose up fast, instinctive, because anger was my oldest weapon. Anger was how I survived him. Anger was how I survived myself.
I turned in a slow circle, fists clenched. “Show yourself!” I shouted.
Amelia grabbed my arm.
Her touch was light, but it shocked me like electricity. Warmth on my skin. Real. Human.
“Stop,” she hissed. “There’s nothing there.”
I jerked my arm away. “You don’t know that.”
Her eyes widened. “Caiden. Listen to me.”
“Don’t tell me to listen.” My voice cracked with fury. With fear. With the shame of being seen.
She stepped in front of me, forcing me to look at her. “You’re hearing things.”
I bared my teeth. “So are you.”
She flinched, then steadied. “Yes. I am. And it’s terrifying. And I’m trying not to let it control me.”
I stared at her.
She looked awful. Hollow. Starved. But there was still something stubborn in her eyes. Something that refused to fold.
It made my chest ache in a way I didn’t understand.
The wind gusted again and the trees hissed like a crowd. For a heartbeat I saw it. Not my father, not fully. Just the shape of a man between the trunks, tall and broad, head tilted like he was watching me with amusement. Like he owned me.
I blinked and it was gone.
My lungs pulled in air like I’d been drowning.
Amelia’s voice softened. “Who is it?”
I wanted to say no one. I wanted to lock it back up. I wanted to be the calm exterior again. But the week had sanded me down. The hunger had scraped away layers. The wilderness didn’t care about my mask.
“My dad,” I admitted, the words tasting like poison.
Amelia’s expression shifted. Not pity. Not judgment.
Understanding.
