The rest of the class milled around the entrance, snapping photos or huddling in cliques. Caiden steered us toward the far edge of the group, his grip loosening only after he was sure I wouldn’t bolt.
A faint dusting of snow crusted the ground, shushing our footsteps as we crossed the courtyard. The fort loomed overhead, log walls blackened by age, windows like gouged-out eyes.
I could almost hear the echo of old violence, musket fire and shouted orders, men shivering in the picket line before being ordered forward to their deaths.
Inside, the fort reeked of varnished pine and something older, a sour musk that seemed to leach from the floorboards themselves.
Our class funneled into the first chamber where a guide in period garb waited.
The words were meant to impress, but nobody cared. Half the class drifted to their phones, the glow of screens brighter than candle lanterns mounted to the wall.
Caiden trailed behind me, sometimes so close I could feel the heat of him. Other times, he vanished into the blind spots only to materialize at my shoulder, breath ghosting against my ear.
I hated how my skin tightened every time. I hated that he could still make me feel anything at all.
He followed me through narrow hallways, into the belly of the barracks. The ceiling pressed low, trapping the air between us, forcing us into proximity.
I traced the grain of the wood with my fingertips, counting old knife marks, wondering which were scars from battle and which were just bored boys carvingup history.
“Bet you feel right at home,” Caiden sneered, voice low enough for only me to hear. “Place reeks of loss. Suicide vibes, you know?”
“Yeah, actually,” I shot back, “I was just thinking about how much this place reminds me of you. All the ghosts, the endless hunger for more pain.”
He snorted, a harsh puff of air, but he didn’t flee. For a blink, his gaze flickered, hurt, maybe, or just the surprise of finding himself a punchline for once.
He grabbed for the next insult and found nothing, and that empty beat between us swelled until I could hardly breathe.
I drifted to the back of the group, where Mrs. Grant’s voice dissolved into static and the tour guide prattled on about “harsh discipline” and “a culture of obedience.” The words bled into the walls, into my bones.
I trailed my fingers along the splinter-gouged banister of a spiral stair, wondering if the stains in the wood were blood or just the slow seep of rain through the centuries.
When I looked back, Caiden was two paces behind, hands in pockets, eyes fixed on the floor.
He looked like a statue, carved from anger and cold. I thought about all the times I’d fantasized about shoving him down a flight of stairs, watching him crumble, and felt the old giddy pulse of vengeance.
But the longer I looked, the more I saw the animal gravity in his slouch.
He was so alone he didn’t even realize how alone he truly was.
“You gonna keep following me?” I asked, not turning.
“Not much else to do,” he said, voice drained of venom. “You’re all I’ve got for this damn field trip.”
We shuffled after the group, through narrow passages where the low ceilings threatened to break our skulls.
The tour guide, a reedy grad student in a secondhand blazer, corralled us into a cramped meeting hall and fired up a projector.
The first slide was a sepia photograph of men in ragged uniforms, faces ghostly and hard. “This,” he intoned, “is where the Regiment made their last stand in 1777. You can almost feel the memory of suffering in the air.”
He wasn’t wrong. Everyinch of that place felt haunted.
Caiden folded his arms and leaned against the splintered wall, eyes hooded as he scanned the room.
When the guide gestured for everyone to break into pairs and explore, Caiden slid in front of me so fast I nearly tripped into his back.
“You don’t have to stalk me,” I said. “I can find my own way.”
“Yeah, sure.” He didn’t even look at me. “Just don’t want to explain to the cops when they find you curled up in a supply closet. Again.”
