12: Things That Don’t Quite Fit

      I don’t move for a long time after that.

      

      The coffee cools in my hands, forgotten. Afternoon light shifts slowly across the kitchen floor, inching closer to the walls as if time itself is trying to prove a point. The world didn’t stop just because I did.

      

      Nearly two months.

      

      I press my fingers against the ceramic mug, grounding myself in the warmth. If I let my thoughts spiral too far, I’m afraid I won’t find my way back.

      

      Mariel busies herself at the counter, deliberately quiet now, giving me space without leaving. I appreciate that more than I can say. There’s comfort in her presence, a gentle stability that doesn’t demand anything from me, and I cling to it silently.

      

      “So,” I say eventually, my voice steadier than I feel. “I’ve been here… the whole time?”

      

      She nods. “Yes. We moved you once, from the hospital, early on, but this has been your room. Your space.”

      

      “And I wasn’t… locked in?” I ask, unsure why the question matters so much.

      

      Mariel smiles gently. “No. You just weren’t awake.”

      

      That lands differently than it should.

      

      I look down at my hands. There are faint scars I don’t remember earning. My skin looks healthy—too healthy, considering what I supposedly went through. I flex my fingers slowly. No pain. No stiffness. Just strength.

      

      “I feel fine,” I admit quietly. “Better than fine, actually.”

      

      “I don’t know who or where, but the hospital you sent me to really did a good job,” I beam.

      

      Mariel’s smile doesn’t falter, but something thoughtful passes through her eyes. “Healing can be surprising,” she says. “Especially when you finally rest.”

      

      I nod, accepting the answer even though it doesn’t fully satisfy me. Maybe she doesn’t want to reveal the trade secrets, and that’s fine. I don’t need answers for everything right now.

      

      Lucien appears later, as quietly as ever. He doesn’t announce himself, just steps into the room like he belongs there—which he clearly does.

      

      “You’re moving around more,” he observes.

      

      “I feel ready,” I reply. “I don’t feel sick anymore.”

      

      “That’s good,” he says. “But don’t push yourself. Recovery isn’t only physical.”

      

      I hesitate, then ask the question that’s been pressing at me since Mariel spoke.

      

      “When can I leave?”

      

      Lucien doesn’t answer right away. He leans against the doorway, arms crossed loosely, expression calm but measured.

      

      “Soon,” he says at last. “But not yet.”

      

      “We will have your last check-up soon. Then we can think about going back,” he continues.

      

      My chest tightens. “Why?”

      

      “The forest isn’t forgiving,” he replies simply. 

      

      “And you’re still adjusting.”

      

      “To what?” I ask before I can stop myself.

      

      He studies me for a moment, then offers a small, almost apologetic smile. “To being awake again.”

      

      It’s not a lie. But it’s not the whole truth either. I can feel it. Something under my skin is different, alive in a way I didn’t know was possible.

      

      “I know you feel fine right now, but we need to be careful, so please be a little more patient,” he continues as he turns the doorknob. 

      His tone isn’t harsh, just calm and firm. Enough to remind me I’m still under someone else’s watch, yet safe.

      

      After he leaves, I wander the house on my own for the first time. Mariel insists I don’t need a guide anymore, just reminds me—again—not to go outside.

      

      The halls feel familiar now. I recognize the way the floor creaks near the stairs, the spot where sunlight always pools in the afternoon. I pass by doors I haven’t opened yet and resist the urge to.

      

      Something tells me I wouldn’t like what I’d find. Not yet.

      

      I stop near a window instead.

      

      Outside, the men are there again—casual, alert, always moving. They don’t look threatening. If anything, they look… bored. Like this is routine.

      

      A strange sensation rolls through me.

      

      Not fear.

      

      Awareness.

      

      I know when one of them turns his head. I know before I actually see it. The realization makes my stomach twist.

      

      “That was so weird,” I murmur to myself.

      

      I step back from the window, unsettled. My heartbeat is steady. Too steady. Even now, after everything I’ve learned, I’m not shaking.

      

      I should be.

      

      But there’s a thrill under it, a quiet buzz that I can’t quite name.

      

      I let myself drift, wandering deeper into the hallways. Every step, every creak of the floor feels like it belongs to me now. The house isn’t just a cage, or a shelter, or a place to rest—it’s mine to explore, mine to reclaim after the emptiness of weeks lost.

      

      Breakfast and the latte linger in my mind like a small treasure. The warmth of the mug, the sweetness, the soft hum of Mariel nearby—it’s grounding, a tether to normalcy that I hadn’t realized I craved.

      

      Even so, I think of other things. My mom. Aurora. Work.

      

      Nearly two months gone, and I can only imagine the worry they must feel. I press my hands to my chest, imagining my mom pacing, her brow furrowed. Aurora, sending frantic texts. And me… absent, silent, out of reach.

      

      “I hope they’re okay,” I murmur, more to myself than anyone else.

      

      Mariel’s voice interrupts my spiraling thoughts, gentle and comforting. 

      

      “You don’t need to worry about them. We made sure everything looked normal. No suspicion, nothing out of place. They’re safe.”

      

      I nod slowly, letting her words sink in. “That’s… a relief.” But guilt still coils in my stomach. I should have reached out. I should have called.

      

      “And your work?” Mariel asks quietly, curiosity laced with warmth.

      

      I let out a humorless laugh. “I’m definitely fired. I didn’t email, didn’t call… just disappeared.”

      

      She smiles knowingly. “One thing at a time. Recovery first. Everything else… you’ll handle when you’re ready.”

      

      Later, I wander through the house, stepping lightly, touching the banister, running my fingers along the smooth surfaces of the doors. 

      Each room beckons with quiet promise. There’s no fear here—just anticipation, the kind that makes my chest lift with a thrill I haven’t felt in months.

      

      I pause in a sunlit corner, letting the light wash over me. My body feels entirely my own again. Strong. Alert. Ready.

      

      A memory stirs—the forest, the snow, the months lost. My heartbeat stutters for a fraction, but it isn’t fear. It’s… excitement. Potential.

      

      That night, I sleep deeply—and dream again of running.

      

      Not away.

      

      Toward something.

      

      The forest moves beneath me, familiar and welcoming. My legs don’t burn. My lungs don’t ache. Moonlight filters through the trees, silver and sharp, and the air tastes like freedom.

      

      I wake sweating, heart hammering—not with fear, but with something dangerously close to longing.

      

      The adrenaline from my dream lingers, coursing through me. I sit up slowly, pressing a hand to my chest.

      

      “Get it together,” I whisper.

      

      And yet, the feeling persists.

      

      It’s hard to describe, but something inside me is waking up…

      

      And whatever it is…

      

      It doesn’t feel human.

      

      My body is strong, my mind is sharp, and the house, for all its quiet corners and hidden shadows, feels less like a cage and more like a place where I can discover who I am.

      

      Outside, the men move quietly among the trees. I notice them, aware of their presence, and yet, for the first time since I woke, I don’t flinch. I feel a thrill under my skin that I don’t fully understand, a pull toward something bigger, a life more than simply surviving.

      

      I lay back on my bed, closing my eyes. Moonlight peeks through the curtains on my face. The hum under my skin grows, a pulse that whispers possibilities.

      

      I am awake. I am alive. And soon… I will step beyond these doors.

      

      With that thought, I drift back to sleep.