I jolted upright, heart hammering in my chest. My forehead was slick with sweat, despite the chill in the air, and my breath came in sharp, uneven gasps.

It wasn't the first time I'd had the nightmare.

Shivers crawled up my spine, each one a little more detailed than the last. Slowly, I lowered myself back onto the ground, my body stiff and tense. I pressed a trembling hand over my heart, silently begging it to calm, to stop racing.

I closed my eyes again, hoping—praying—that sleep would come without the terrors lurking behind my eyelids.

But my mind wouldn't relent. Exhaustion gnawed at me, but the restless thoughts had a way of distracting me, refusing to let me slip back into unconsciousness. Every sound—the distant chirping of birds, the hum of crickets—acted like a cruel reminder that I was still here. Still awake.

Still stuck.

I gazed up at the stars, faint traces of moonlight filtering through the trees. In the distance, a deer wandered through the field, its fawn following closely behind. The scent of pine and dirty clothes lingered in the air, grounding me as I slowly came to full awareness.

My camp was a mess, belongings scattered everywhere. I lay wrapped in a small blanket, the fabric still clinging to the familiar scent of the wolf. That smell brought a fresh sting to my eyes.

The loneliness hit harder now—no longer foreign or confusing, but a dull ache I had grown used to. It crept up on me, catching me off guard in the quiet moments.

Everything in nature had a purpose—a role to play in the grand web of existence. But what was mine? I didn't feel connected to anything here. I simply survived, feeding the basic human instinct to keep going.

I had no place, no purpose.

The moonlight faded, replaced by the soft glow of dawn. I realized any hope of sleep had passed, so I pushed myself upright, stretching my stiff limbs. The familiar ache in my back reminded me of how long I had been enduring this life.

I pushed myself up from the cold ground, my legs stiff and unsteady. The morning light filtered through the trees as I tried to shake off the lingering exhaustion and the tightness in my chest.

My camp was a wreck, my thoughts scattered, and staying here felt suffocating. I needed to move, to find some kind of distraction from the loneliness clinging to me.

Without thinking too much about it, I made my way toward the graveyard. Each step felt heavier than the last, but the pull was undeniable.

The old man—the graveyard keeper—was always there, no matter the hour. I never knew exactly when he arrived or when he left. He just... was. And in some strange way, his constant presence was a comfort.

As I approached, I could already make out his familiar form, bent slightly as he tended to something I couldn't quite see. My hands trembled, and I nervously bit at my nails. I'd thought about talking to him for weeks now but always stopped myself at the last minute. What would I even say?

He had probably noticed me by now—lingering at the edge of the cemetery like a ghost, watching him from afar. Maybe he already suspected something was off with me. How could he not? He had to have seen me trying to muster the courage to approach, only to retreat again, countless times.

But today felt different. Maybe it was the grief still sitting heavy in my chest, or maybe I just couldn't bear the thought of turning back and being alone again.

The sound of a car door slamming broke through the silence, pulling me from my thoughts. I stopped mid-step, instinctively crouching behind the fence as I turned toward the noise. Everyone nearby seemed to have the same reaction, heads swiveling toward the disturbance.

It was the beautiful man—storming toward his usual spot, a bouquet of roses in hand. His presence felt wrong, out of place.

Normally, he came in the afternoon, a routine I had memorized. But now, in the early morning light, his movements were sharp, agitated. This wasn't the serene figure I had grown accustomed to watching from afar.

I stayed hidden, crouched behind the fence that separated me from the rest of the world, unsure of what to do. My focus shifted from the old man I was planning to approach, to the beautiful man's uncharacteristic behavior.

He stomped toward the old grave he always visited, his shoulders tense. Something about the scene tugged at my curiosity, drawing me in. For now, I stayed in my spot, content to let this distraction keep me hidden behind the fence.

The atmosphere shifted the moment he arrived, charged with an energy that seemed to radiate from him. He was the kind of man who commanded attention, even in a crowd, without saying a word. No matter how hard I tried not to, my eyes were drawn to him, almost involuntarily.

It was as if I could feel him with every part of me, his presence pushing against my senses as he moved closer. His aura wasn't just noticeable—it was overwhelming.

People in the graveyard reacted, subtly but unmistakably. They turned to glance at him, but just as quickly averted their eyes, as if the mere sight of him was too much to bear.

It wasn't obvious that they knew him personally, but over the years I had seen enough to recognize the pattern. Their uneasy fidgeting, their hushed tones—it was always the same whenever he was around.

As usual, he stood there with flowers in hand, though this time the roses were disheveled, petals bruised from his angry march from the car. His face was a mask of frustration, his brows furrowed in a deep scowl as he shoved his gloved hands into his pockets.

I waited, feeling the weight of his presence pressing down on me, unable to make a move until he was gone. His distracting energy held me in place, just as it held everyone else.

So, I remained hidden behind the fence, watching as he completed his usual ritual—placing the roses on the grave and then turning to leave.

He didn't linger, and I waited for that moment when his shadow finally passed, giving me space to breathe again.

scanned the graveyard as I approached, my eyes sweeping over the clusters of headstones and trees. It took a moment before I spotted the old man, crouched near a fresh grave.

His head was bent low, focused intently on his work, and his hands moved with the slow, deliberate care of someone who had done this many times before. He was whistling a rhythmic tune, soft and steady, blending into the quiet hum of the morning.

For a second, relief washed over me. I had found him.

I took a deep breath and began walking toward him. He didn't notice me approaching, his back to me, still absorbed in the task at hand.

But with every step I took, that familiar feeling washed over me—the same gut-wrenching panic I'd felt the day the wolf... when everything went wrong. My chest tightened, and suddenly I couldn't breathe.

My legs froze, rooted to the spot as if they had given up on carrying me any further. Every instinct screamed at me to turn and run, to retreat to the safety of solitude before it was too late. The urge to flee surged through me, powerful and overwhelming.

But I couldn't. Not this time. I wouldn't let my fear rule me anymore.

I clenched my fists and forced myself to take another step. Slowly, I regained control over my body, pushing through the panic, ignoring the pounding in my chest. I couldn't live like this anymore—always afraid, always on the edge of running. I had to do this.

The old man was still bent over his task, completely unaware of my presence. I cleared my throat softly, my rehearsed words trembling on the tip of my tongue.

"Hello?"

My voice was croaky and obviously unused sounding.

The old man looked up, his eyes scanning the area before landing on me. For a moment, there was no recognition in his gaze. But then, slowly, I saw the spark of realization flicker. His eyebrows lifted, and a small, welcoming smile crossed his weathered face.

"Hello, miss."

He turned fully toward me, and I felt my pulse in my ears, unsure of what to do next. I nodded in return, a clumsy acknowledgment, and the silence stretched between us.

My heart pounded harder as the quiet became unbearable. This was nothing like anything I'd faced before—far from the woods, far from the comfort of solitude.

Panic rising, I pointed at him awkwardly.

He blinked, looking at my finger with a bemused expression, then back to my face. "Me?" he asked, his confusion clear.

I jabbed my finger at his chest this time, more insistent, but still unable to form the words. The frustration bubbled over, and I let out an exasperated huff, scrambling for a word buried deep in the fog of my mind.

"Name," I finally said, the word slow, unsure. My cheeks burned with embarrassment as I held my breath, praying I had said it correctly.

His eyes widened in realization, and then he laughed, a gentle, kind sound. He pointed to a patch on his shirt with letters on it—letters I couldn't read.

"My name is Ben, miss."

For a moment, a small flicker of pride warmed me. I'd done it—I had asked for someone's name. It seemed like a small thing, but to me, it was monumental. This was the first step. And just as I was about to revel in my accomplishment, reality hit me hard.

"What is your name?"

My mind went blank. The pride that had swelled up inside me collapsed into panic. My mouth opened, but nothing coherent came out, only a strange, guttural noise from the back of my throat.

His face shifted from curiosity to concern as I stood there, frozen.

And then, without thinking, I turned on my heel and ran, bolting back toward the safety of the forest.