Day... I don't know. Two? Three?
Splash. Splash. Splash.
That's all I hear. The river, slapping at my legs like it's trying to drag me under. My calves are burning. My boots are soaked through. My pack feels like it's filled with bricks.
The sun is high and bright overhead, midday, I tell myself.
"I'll warm up once I'm across." I mutter to myself.
Why the hell am I even doing this?
I don't even think this damned compass works.
The compass...
Her compass.
The last thing she gave me. She was so... pale, her skin was practically see-through, and she pressed into my hand like it weighed more than she did.
"Follow it north," she said. "It will take you exactly where you need to be."
I thought she meant it as some poetic last words, you know? Something to make me feel better. But now, years later, I find it stuffed in a box in the attic, buried under old quilts and junk she kept for reasons I'll probably never understand.
So, I came back to the cabin. The place she died. The place she gave me this... this thing. Figured maybe I'd humor her last wish.
The compass doesn't even have directions. Just a gold notch. I decided that must be north. Been following it ever since. Two days straight and now... well- no clue where I am now.
But the forest feels different here. Too quiet, like it's holding its breath. The water's colder than it should be for this time of year. And I swear... I swear sometimes the needle moves when I'm not looking.
Sigh.
I'm tired. I'm wet. And I keep feeling like I'm walking toward something that's been waiting for me a long time.
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Once I'm over the river, the land starts to rise and dry. A narrow path threads between tall pines, their needles whispering in a wind I can not feel. The compass needle doesn't stray far from the notch, steady enough to give the impression I'm going north-though the sun feels like it's shifted behind me.
I pass a rusted tin cup lying in the grass. No reason for it to be here. A rotted signpost a short way on, the lettering so faded it's impossible to read. And then- a tattered scarf caught in the branch, the frayed end twisting in the air. It looks almost exactly like the one she used to wear.
I don't think I ever saw her take it off. Not even before she died. No - it was always there, wrapped around her like it belonged to her as much as her own skin. Wrapped around her till the very end.
Each time I pass one of these things, the forest feels...quieter. No rustle, no snap of swigs or the song of birds. Just my own breathing, too loud in my ears.
The compass veers slightly now and then, as if steering me just wide enough to pass these things close enough to notice.
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After maybe an hour, the trees grow denser, the space between them narrowing until branches graze my coat. Even so, the light hasn't changed much-still bright, but filtered, cooler, flatter, as though the shadows have been ironed out.
I pass a birch with a strip of bark curling away like parchment. A fallen log drowned in moss. I could swear I've seen them before.
Another hour, I think. My watch says so. But my legs ache with the weight of a full day's walk.
As I gaze up at the sky once more, I notice the light is different now. Not the slow fade of afternoon, but a sudden dimming, as though the sun's dropped behind a wall of cloud. Yet as I glance up, the sky is clear through the gaps in the canopy.
Somewhere behind me, I could swear I hear that whispering in the wind again. But the air around me remainds still.
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The compass twitches. Just once. Enough to turn my head.
Through a tangle of branches, I see a break in the trees. A narrow seam of brighter light ahead.
I push toward it, ducking low. The air changes - still, stale with the faint smell of dust. I step into a clearing.
The grass is thin, patchy. In the center stands an oak tree, so wide three people could barely encircle it. The trunk is split open from root to branch, a deep wound in its wood.
Inside the hollow hangs something pale. Soft, limp folds moving with the faintest breath of wind- a wind I still can't feel. Yet I hear the pine needles around the clearing whispering again.
It takes a moment for my brain to piece it together. Dirt-stained fabric. Torn lace at the hem. A frayed ribbon at the waist.
Her dress.
The one she wore on that day. And just for a second, I swear I can see it-the scarf-wrapped around the neck of the dress like it's still holding her... right there.
I feel the compass. The needle spins slowly now, like it feels something. Relieved?
I don't move.
Somewhere in the stillness, I think I hear the faintest breath - not mine.