We head into the trees.
The morning is beautiful and utterly wasted on my ability to appreciate it.
Sunlight filters through new leaves, painting the trail in coins of gold. Birds chatter in the canopy. The air smells like damp earth and thawing roots and the no-longer-shy flowers of spring. Elias talks as we walk, about his camera placement, about comparative plant growth, about a bizarre raccoon print he found yesterday that looked for all the world like a tiny hand flipping him off.
I hear him. I answer. I point out hazards and reroute us around a fallen tree.
I’m also somewhere else entirely.
Because the clock in the back of my mind—the one that tracks seasonal shifts and migration patterns and the logistics of running a national monster network without cell towers—has been ticking louder every day.
Soon, I have to leave.
Usually, I make the journey to Yellowstone for the Solstice Bash over the course of several weeks, taking my time. I visit old relay stones, check fiber runs where they cross ley lines, adjust wards around a few of the more temperamental gathering spots. I let myself wander. I breathe.
This year, the thought of walking away from this forest while Elias is still in it makes my throat tight.
“Okay,” Elias says cheerfully, breaking into my spiral. “You’re quiet. And for once it’s not ‘I’m thinking about server infrastructure’ quiet. It’s ‘I’m brooding like a gothic novel hero’ quiet. What’s up?”
I snort. “Gothic novel hero?”
“You have the hair for it.”
I reach up to shove said hair back, only to remember that’s exactly the kind of thing a gothic novel hero would do, and scowl in spite of myself.
We pick our way around a muddy stretch. He uses a stick to test the depth before stepping, tongue between his teeth in concentration. I watch until I’m sure his footing holds, then follow.
“I have to leave soon,” I say.
His foot slips. He catches himself, then turns to look at me fully. “Leave?” he repeats. “Like… for supplies? For a few days?”
“For the Solstice,” I say. “I usually start the trek in early May.”
“Oh,” he says.
The brightness in his expression dims for a heartbeat. He steps out of the mud and onto firmer ground, then stands there, chewing the inside of his cheek.
I hate that I put that look on his face.
“I go early,” I add quickly, as if that helps. “I have to check on the Network along the way. Make sure the regional hubs arestable. There are a few places that only I know how to fix when they decide to throw tantrums.”
He nods slowly. “Right. Of course. That makes sense. You are… kind of the backbone of the whole thing.”
“Try telling that to Akai,” I mutter.
His mouth twitches.
He’s quiet for a few steps, then says, very softly, “I’ll miss you.”
Warmth blooms beneath my ribs.
It’s not dramatic or violent. Instead, it’s a slow, spreading warmth. It reaches my heart. My lungs. The places I hadn’t realized had gone cold over the centuries.
“You’ll… miss me,” I repeat, because apparently my brain has fallen into a ravine.
He laughs, embarrassed but not backing down. “Yeah,” he says. “You kind of… grew on me. Like lichen. Or moss. Or some other dignity-destroying analogy.”
“Lichen,” I repeat. “Really?”
