WHERE Will I SPEND THE NİGHT?
The wind was trying to kill him.
Borz could no longer feel his fingers. The cold had already eaten through his gloves, his sleeves, his skin—now it was digging deeper, as if searching for bone.
If he didn't find shelter soon…
he wouldn't last the night.
He forced himself forward.
Each step sank into frozen ground that refused to hold him. The darkness swallowed everything beyond a few meters, turning the forest into a silent predator waiting patiently for him to fall.
Move.
Standing still meant death.
The wind lashed against his face again—sharp, merciless. It wasn't just cold. It was violent. Like thousands of invisible blades scraping across his skin.
He exhaled slowly.
Bad idea.
The moment he focused on the cold, it grew stronger. It slipped deeper, tighter, more suffocating.
No. Don't think about it.
Thinking was a trap.
Movement was survival.
But where?
What does a man do when he's alone in a mountain forest with no path, no light, and no certainty of morning?
Nature surrounded him—not as a friend, but as a judge.
Would it let him live?
Or would it erase him like everything else?
That wouldn't be decided by hope.
Only by endurance.
A flicker of memory surfaced.
Beyoğlu.
Pera.
The soft wind drifting through Galata's narrow streets…
That wind had once felt gentle. Playful. Alive.
This one?
This one wanted him gone.
A sudden gust slammed into him, erasing the memory before it could settle.
Good.
Memories wouldn't keep him alive.
His hands throbbed violently now.
The pain had changed. It was no longer sharp—it was dull, deep, dangerous.
That meant time was running out.
And then—
He saw it.
A shadow.
Not natural.
Angular. Broken.
Man-made.
A structure.
Relief didn't come.
Not yet.
Hope was dangerous when survival wasn't guaranteed.
But it was something.
And right now, something was enough.
Without hesitation, he moved toward it.
The building stood like a corpse abandoned by time. Windows shattered. Walls cracked. The door barely hanging from rusted hinges.
A ruin.
Perfect.
If it blocked even a fraction of the wind, it was worth everything.
He stepped inside.
The air changed immediately.
Not warm.
But less cruel.
That alone felt like mercy.
He scanned the interior quickly.
Broken furniture. Rotting wood. Trash scattered across the floor. Even a discarded diaper in the corner.
No life.
Good.
Winter buried most threats beneath silence. If anything had lived here, it was long gone—or sleeping.
Either way, it wouldn't challenge him tonight.
Hopefully.
He moved deeper inside.
Room by room.
Nothing useful.
Until—
There.
A fireplace.
Of course there was no door.
Of course the windows were broken.
Of course nothing here was intact.
But the fireplace was real.
And right now—
That was all that mattered.
He dropped his worn black school bag onto the least filthy patch of ground.
His body protested every movement, but he ignored it.
Pain could wait.
Death wouldn't.
He began clearing space.
Spider webs. Dust. Debris.
Then he gathered what he could—half-rotten wood, broken boards, anything that might burn.
He snapped them apart with his foot.
Weak.
Damp.
Unreliable.
But again—
Something.
He knelt in front of the fireplace.
Dry leaves first.
Then wood.
Then—
The lighter.
Still there.
Good.
"Come on…" he muttered. "Don't fail me now."
A spark.
Smoke.
A thick, bitter smell filled the air instantly. His eyes burned. His throat tightened.
The wood resisted.
Of course it did.
Nothing came easy here.
"Burn."
Another spark.
More smoke.
Nothing.
"Just burn."
He coughed violently and stumbled outside for air. Cold rushed into his lungs like punishment.
When he returned—
A flicker.
Small.
Weak.
But alive.
The fire held.
Not strong.
Not proud.
But stubborn.
He sat in front of it and extended his hands.
Pain came first.
A sharp, brutal sting as blood forced its way back into frozen fingers.
He clenched his jaw.
Didn't move.
Didn't pull back.
Then—
Warmth.
Slow.
Fragile.
But real.
He watched the fire.
It destroyed the wood… yet gave life in return.
Consumed… yet created.
Maybe that was the cost of warmth.
Something always had to burn.
Outside, the wind continued its assault.
Inside, the fire fought back.
And Borz sat between them.
He thought of the city again.
Neon lights.
Voices.
Endless noise pretending to be meaning.
He didn't hate it.
He simply no longer believed in it.
Out here, nothing pretended.
If you were weak—you suffered.
If you were careless—you paid.
If you were unprepared—you died.
Honest.
Brutal.
Clear.
He leaned against the cold stone wall.
It offered no comfort.
Only truth.
Once, someone had owned this place.
Now it belonged to time.
Just like everything else.
The fire cracked suddenly.
A spark leapt out—and died instantly.
Everything needed breath.
Fire.
Body.
Mind.
Without meaning…
You suffocated long before death arrived.
That was why he had come.
Not for adventure.
Not for escape.
But because something inside him had already begun to die.
Wake.
Work.
Consume.
Scroll.
Sleep.
Repeat.
A life moving…
but going nowhere.
Out here, there was no illusion.
Only survival.
Warmth.
Shelter.
Breath.
Nothing else.
He stood slowly and walked to the broken window.
Outside—
Darkness.
Complete.
No lights.
No people.
No escape.
For the first time—
He felt small.
Not metaphorically.
Truly small.
He returned to the fire and sat down again.
The flames were stronger now.
Steadier.
Alive.
He extended his hands one last time.
And whispered:
"Stay alive."
He wasn't sure anymore…
whether he was speaking to the fire—
or to himself.
...
"If you like the story, please ADD TO LIBRARY so you don't miss daily updates!"
Borz is no longer fighting the noise of the city; he is fighting for his next breath. In the silence of the mountains, the fire is his only ally—but for how long?
The journey has just begun. If you felt the chill of the mountain air in this chapter, please ADD TO LIBRARY and leave a comment!
Power Stones: We are now eligible for Power Stones! Every stone is a log thrown into Borz's fire to keep the story burning.
"He didn't just climb a mountain; he climbed tens of thousands of years of history..."