I woke up staring at a ceiling that wasn't mine.
For a moment, I didn't breathe. My body refused to move, like it was waiting for permission. The air smelled wrong—woodsmoke and something sharp, bitter. My back ached. My wrists throbbed. When I tried to sit up, pain flared and dragged me back down.
"Don't," a voice said.
It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.
I turned my head. The room was small, built from rough timber and packed earth. Light slipped in through a narrow opening covered with cloth. A fire crackled somewhere close, steady and controlled.
An old man sat near it, sharpening a blade against a stone.
He didn't look at me.
"Drink," he said, and nudged a wooden cup toward the bed with his foot.
I hesitated.
"It won't kill you," he added. "Not today."
That decided it.
The water tasted strange, but it stayed down. My hands shook as I held the cup. Only then did I realize they were wrapped—cleanly, tightly. Whoever had done it knew what they were doing.
"Where am I?" I asked.
"Inside," the old man replied.
"That's not an answer."
"It's enough of one."
I swallowed. My throat felt raw, like I'd been screaming.
"Will they look for me?" I asked. "I've never… left before."
The blade stopped moving.
"Anyone chase you?" he asked.
"I don't know."
"That's a no, then." He resumed sharpening. "You ran far. Farther than most people manage."
I didn't know whether to feel proud or afraid.
The last thing I remembered was falling. Roots tearing at my legs. The ground rushing up. Then hands—strong, unfamiliar—lifting me before the world went dark.
"You carried me?" I asked.
"Yes."
"How?"
"You're lighter than you think."
That should've been comforting. It wasn't.
I shifted again, testing my body. My side burned. I sucked in a breath.
"Don't touch that," the old man said without looking up. "You'll open it."
"How do you know?"
"Because I closed it."
Silence stretched between us. Not awkward. Just empty.
After a while, I asked, "Why?"
The stone scraped against metal. Once. Twice.
"Because you'd be dead otherwise," he said.
"That's it?"
He finally looked at me then. His eyes were sharp, not unkind, but tired—like someone who had seen enough endings to stop expecting better ones.
"That's plenty."
I didn't know what to say to that.
My gaze drifted around the room. A low wooden bed. A table scarred with old cuts. Bundles of dried plants hanging from the beams. A rack of tools near the door—knives, traps, things I didn't recognize. Everything was used. Nothing was wasted.
"This isn't a town," I said.
"No."
"Is it yours?"
"Yes."
"Am I allowed to be here?"
The corner of his mouth twitched.
"Right now?" he said. "You don't have much choice."
I stared at the ceiling again.
In the quiet, something strange happened.
The tightness in my chest loosened.
No whispers. No eyes. No prayers muttered behind my back.
Just the fire. The old man. My own breathing.
"I don't know how to live out there," I admitted. The words slipped out before I could stop them.
"Good," he said.
I frowned. "Good?"
"Means you won't pretend you do." He stood, finally setting the blade aside. "Rest. When you can stand without falling over, we'll talk."
"Talk about what?"
He paused at the doorway.
"About whether you're worth keeping alive."
Then he stepped outside, leaving me alone with the fire and the quiet.
For the first time I could remember, no one was telling me who I was supposed to be.
Only that I had survived.