The canvas of the tent swayed gently, lifted by the evening wind. A golden light filtered through the seams, casting trembling reflections on the ground — like the shadows of an ancient fire. Dylan hesitated at the threshold, then pulled the flap aside.
The air inside smelled of clean linen, disinfectant, and human fatigue. Maggie was asleep — or pretending to be. Her face, pale under the lamp's glow, looked both younger and harder. Strands of hair clung to her forehead, and her shallow breathing traced a fragile rhythm.
Dylan stood there, motionless, as if afraid to disturb a painting.
Five months.
Five months running, hiding, fighting everything except himself. And now she was there, within reach, yet separated from him by an invisible wall — the weight of what he had become.
"You planning to watch me sleep all night?"
Her voice, rough but clear, cut through the silence like a dull blade.
He managed a tired smile. "I was just making sure you were still breathing."
