Two: Wren

Night in Pinecrest is a predator with cold teeth. You learn to walk like you mean it.

The wind slams me as soon as I step out, slicing through my jacket and stinging my cheeks with grit. The bar’s facade is a black mirror, reflecting nothing but the flicker of the dying neon and a hunched, small-shouldered shape that could be me or anyone else who didn’t fit in this town. I double-wrap my scarf, shove hands into my pockets, and start up Timber Road with my head down and my senses wide open.

Pinecrest after dark is a study in negative space. The snow swallows sound, but the hush never fools me—there’s always a dog barking, a plow rumbling half a mile away, the whisper of something moving in the trees. Tonight, the wind’s got the upper hand; it skates over the rooftops and tugs at the power lines, making them whine like they’re hurt.

Streetlamps cut the night into uneven bands of jaundiced yellow. Every few steps, my shadow lurches ahead or folds back under me, lengthening and shrinking like it’s trying on different bodies. The sidewalk is a slick crust, and my boots crack it with each step, echoing just loud enough to make me wish I’d worn something softer.

I keep my eyes up. Not in the way of a lost girl hoping someone will notice, but like a fox who’s learned you can’t trust the forest even when you’re part of it. There’s a patch of darkness between the hardware store and the market where the bulbs have been dead since last fall. I cross to the other side without breaking stride, passing under the busted “OPEN 24 HOURS” sign that never glows past 8 PM. The only witness is a snowman slumped against the Dumpster, its face caved in, carrot nose snapped off and lying in the gutter.

The burn of the cold is good. It keeps me sharp, reminds me that skin is just a container for blood and nerves and whatever else people think matters. I do a mental check of the route: two blocks to the bridge, left at the coffee shop, then up the stairs behind the auto body. The only moving thing is a rusty pickup crawling past, its tires chewing gravel. The driver’s face is invisible behind the reflection of his own dash lights, and he doesn’t slow down. I appreciate that.

There’s always a point in the walk when the silence turns itself inside out, and you realize it’s been listening to you the whole time. For me, that point comes on the bridge—Moonstone Bridge, though no one calls it that except people who left town long enough to miss it. I pause at the crest, looking down at the black thread of river. Some nights, when the moon is bright, you can see the current flash with silver, but tonight it’s just matte darkness and the suggestion of movement.

Halfway across, I stop. Not because I want to, but because I smell something sharp and out of place—metallic, like the ghost of a burned-out fuse or the tang of blood from a split lip. It’s gone in a breath, replaced by woodsmoke and the sweeter stink of antifreeze leaking from the pipes under the bridge, but I hold still anyway, counting heartbeats.

The wind drops for just a second, and that’s when I hear it: not a voice, but the scrape of something heavy against stone, far below. It could be ice breaking, or an animal rooting for shelter, or nothing. I don’t give the fear more than a name before I keep moving, boots now muffled by a layer of fresh powder that wasn’t there when I locked up an hour ago.

The last stretch is the worst—past the town square, where the Christmas lights stay up all year and sway like drowned stars, then up the stone steps to my building. The stairwell is its own refrigerator, the air thick with old cigarette smoke and mildew, but I breathe it in deep, like it’s proof I made it.

At the landing, I fumble the keys, cursing under my breath when the ring catches on my glove. I glance back, the reflex stronger than the logic, and catch only the emptiness of the street below, every window dark. The hairs on my arms stand up anyway. I picture Dana at her kitchen table, a cup of coffee already poured, the radio dialed to old country. She’d laugh if she saw me flinch, but I’d rather be laughed at than wrong.

I unlock the door and step inside. The hallway is quiet, save for the drip of a busted pipe in the crawlspace. My apartment is third door left, easy to find by the paper taped to the peephole: OUT OF ORDER. I wedge the door shut behind me and let the heat seep into my bones. For a moment, I stand there, back pressed to the cheap wood, and listen to my own breath slow down.

Outside, the wind picks up again, rattling the windows in their frames. Down in the street, a figure leans against the base of the stairwell, face hidden by the hood of a sweatshirt. They linger for a count of twenty, then vanish into the alley—leaving nothing behind but a patch of flattened snow and the echo of my name, just barely audible in the static of the night.