I woke before dawn, not by any alarm but by the faint chill creeping through the cracked window. The tower's thin metal walls let the cold slide in easily, brushing across my skin like a warning. I sat up slowly, rubbing my eyes, and listened. The forest was quiet — the kind of quiet that felt alive because it didn't need to announce itself. No wind rattled the roof, no birds called out, no distant cars hum along a highway. Just stillness.
I made my way to the small desk, careful not to bump into the cot. The morning light was barely brushing the tops of the trees. I flipped on the little battery lamp beside the radio, enough to see my journal and pen. My first order of business was checking the notes from yesterday — supplies, map points, weather observations. Nothing had changed.
Breakfast was quick. Canned beans warmed on the small propane stove, instant coffee stirred until it smelled more like energy than liquid. I ate slowly, letting the warmth sink in. The tower had a strange way of making me aware of time passing — or not passing. Out here, a morning could feel like an hour, or an eternity.
By seven, the sun had fully crested the horizon. I climbed to the observation window with binoculars in hand, scanning the valleys and ridges. The forest stretched endlessly, shades of green mingling with patches of gold where the sunlight hit just right. A deer trotted across a ridge far below — careful, unaware of me high above. I made a note in my journal, small observations like these meant more than they would seem: animal behavior, movement of clouds, wind direction. Everything mattered when you were alone.
Mid-morning, I picked up the radio and checked in with Base.
"Base, this is Holt. Morning check-in. Weather clear. All secure," I said, my voice steady.
Static at first, then Carter's familiar voice cut through. "Copy that, Holt. Weather looks good. Clear skies. Any signs of smoke?"
"None so far. Valley looks clean. Deer spotted on Ridge Five. Over."
"Nice. Keep us posted. And try not to get bored up there, alright?"
I chuckled, leaning against the window. "Boredom isn't really an option, Carter."
"Sure, sure. Don't forget to hydrate. Over and out."
The radio went silent again, leaving me alone with the hum of the cabin. I leaned back, taking a sip of coffee. It was routine. Comfortable. Predictable.
The hours passed in their own slow rhythm. I walked the perimeter of the tower platform, making sure the ladder was secure, the hatch locked tight. I checked the propane tank, the flashlight batteries, the fire extinguisher again. Small, necessary tasks, but they kept the mind engaged. I scribbled notes in my journal: wind direction, temperature, a sketch of the ridge line to the west that caught sunlight just so. The forest seemed peaceful, almost too peaceful.
Lunch was more beans. I joked to myself that at this rate, I'd start craving jerky more than anything else. I sat on the cot, eating slowly, listening. Sometimes I'd hear a distant woodpecker or the low murmur of a creek. Mostly, though, there was quiet. I liked that. Liked it more than I thought I would.
Around two in the afternoon, I picked up the binoculars again. Nothing out of the ordinary. No people, no fires, no distant lights. The forest was still, the way it could only be when it had no reason to announce itself. I tilted the binoculars toward the ridge lines, tracking shadows of moving branches, thinking about the rhythm of nature. Even from this height, I could see the slow patience of the forest — the way life moves on its own schedule.
By late afternoon, I felt the need for more human connection, so I called Base again.
"Base, Holt. Afternoon check-in. Still clear. All secure," I said.
"Good to hear, Holt. Don't get too comfortable up there," Carter replied, a laugh in his voice. "Remember what I said — boredom isn't an option."
"I remember," I said, smiling. "Try to keep the coffee warm down there. Over."
Static cut out the rest of the message. I set the radio down, feeling slightly lighter. Even small interactions helped — just enough to remind me I wasn't completely alone.
I spent the next couple of hours inspecting my supplies again, rotating cans, checking water bottles, adjusting the stove. Out here, small details mattered. One can punctured by accident could mean an empty meal, one misread map line could mean hours of wasted wandering if you ever left the tower. But for now, I had everything in order. The routine was comforting, predictable, necessary.
Dinner came early. Same as breakfast, but with an extra cup of coffee. I sat on the cot, looking out the window at the forest stretching into dusk. Shadows lengthened across the valleys, trees turning into dark silhouettes. I finished the meal slowly, washing up the dishes carefully and putting everything back in place.
As night fell, I climbed back to the observation window with binoculars. That's when I saw it — a faint orange glow, far in the valley. My first thought was campers breaking the fire ban. Probably someone careless, lighting a small campfire for warmth. I adjusted the binoculars, focusing. The glow wasn't steady — it flickered, small, contained. No smoke yet. I made a mental note, not overly concerned.
I grabbed my journal and wrote: Faint fire in valley, miles away. Possibly campers. No action needed at this time. Will monitor.
The glow stayed for a while, flickering at intervals. I continued scanning the forest, logging minor observations — the way the wind shifted the leaves, how the creek shimmered under moonlight, a lone owl perched on a distant branch. Nothing else moved, nothing else glowed.
The night air grew colder, and I closed the window slightly. I left the binoculars on the desk, ready if anything changed. The forest outside was dark, deep, vast. And the faint orange light remained, small, distant, insignificant — or so I told myself.
I settled back on the cot with my journal, writing the final notes of the day:
Day Two. Routine mostly uneventful. Weather clear. Forest peaceful. Interaction with Base normal. Distant light observed — likely campers. Nothing else to report. Feeling calm, focused.
I leaned back, stretching my shoulders, listening. The night had a rhythm, a kind of slow pulse that you only notice when you're very still. The hum of the tower, the soft rustle of leaves far below, the occasional distant bird — all of it made the forest feel alive, even when no one was around.
Sleep came slowly, not because of fear, but because my mind moved in circles, thinking about tomorrow, thinking about the forest, thinking about being so far away from everyone else. The quiet had a weight to it, one that was soothing and unnerving at the same time.
Eventually, I closed my eyes. The tower creaked softly as the metal adjusted to the cool night air. The distant glow in the valley flickered once more before disappearing behind the trees. And for the first time, I realized that the forest could be peaceful… or it could be waiting.
I didn't know which it was yet.