Affirming Aunt Heather's doubts, I answered her with my own speculations of the situation.
"I am afraid it was a planned 'accident,' and Harold Meachum was their accomplice," I confirmed, the harsh truth laid bare. "He worked with them to make it look like a tragic incident, planning to eliminating Wendell, you and Danny for good."
"You said Harold survived the crash," she said, her thoughts spiraling, connecting the dots of deception. "Is there a chance that Wendell did too? Is there any possibility my husband survived?" Hope, fragile yet desperate, entered her voice, clinging to the faintest thread.
That is something I never thought about, I realized, a fresh surge of possibility mixed with guilt for my prior oversight. My future self hadn't found him, but that didn't mean this timeline could be different. The thought was both exciting and terrifying.
"I don't know," I admitted honestly, shaking my head slowly. "In the future, we found no clues about him, nobody or anything at the plane's crash site. No wreckage of his body, no trace, nothing. So we have no idea of his current whereabouts, or if he even survived the initial impact or The Hand's cleanup."
"So you're saying he might be alive?" she pressed, agitation creeping into her tone, her eyes blazing with a renewed, almost fierce, determination.
"It's a far-fetched and low possibility, Aunt Heather," I conceded, trying to manage her expectations, knowing how easily hope could turn to crushing disappointment. "But yes, given Harold's survival, it's a slim chance. He might be alive."
"Then we should look for him!" she exclaimed, getting even more agitated, her eyes blazing with singular focus. "We have to find Wendell! We can't leave him out here!"
"We can't, Aunt Heather," I said, trying to calm her down, my voice firm but gentle, pulling her back to the harsh reality. "Currently, we don't have either the resources or the manpower. We are just two people, a child and an injured adult, lost in the mountains with limited supplies. And we have absolutely no clue of his whereabouts. Searching for him blindly in these vast, dangerous mountains would be suicidal for all of us. We need to get ourselves safe first."
Heather gave a dejected sigh, the hope fading once more from her features, replaced by a weary acceptance. Her shoulders slumped, and she nodded slowly. We continued on our journey. After two grueling days of walking through the mountains, battling the relentless snow and harsh winds, avoiding potential Hand patrols, and relying on my heightened senses, we finally got out of the coldest regions and reached a small, isolated village in the northern part of Nepal. The very air felt different, warmer, lighter.
Communicating with the residents was difficult, a challenging mix of gestures and broken phrases, but their warmth and hospitality were evident. Eventually, in exchange for the fur of a fox we had hunted in the mountains while traveling—a necessary measure for survival, providing both food and a valuable trade item—we managed to get some simple, nourishing food and clear directions to a nearby city.
It took us another full day of travel to reach that city, a bustling, chaotic hub compared to the quiet mountains. And though I didn't say it during the entire arduous journey, I was genuinely surprised by the fact that Aunt Heather, despite her ordeal and her recent recovery, had managed to keep up with me through the whole, relentless trek. She was tougher than she looked, far tougher than the socialite I'd seen in my future memories.
Upon finally reaching the bustling city, my first priority was to exchange the crumpled cash I clutched for the local currency. The unfamiliar notes felt solid, a tangible connection to this new, unexpected reality.
Next, Aunt Heather and I sought out a nearby shop. Our tattered, mountain-worn clothes were a stark contrast to the vibrant city life, and we desperately needed replacements. What should have been a quick task stretched into a nearly three-hour marathon, all thanks to Aunt Heather's discerning eye. She meticulously inspected every fabric, debated every shade, and insisted on trying on an endless parade of outfits. By the time we emerged from the shop, the sun was already beginning its descent, painting the sky in fiery oranges and soft purples.
Before we left, I inquired about a good hotel nearby, noting the approaching dusk. After a quick, much-needed dinner, we made our way to the recommended establishment, our exhaustion a heavy cloak. We parted ways in the quiet hotel hallway, each retreating to the sanctuary of our separate rooms.
As I stepped into my room, a profound sigh of relief escaped my lips. I dropped the shopping bags with a soft thud, the day's weariness settling deeply into my bones. "I feel more tired now than I did after walking in the snow for a whole day," I murmured, surprised by the sheer exhaustion.
Taking a few minutes to simply breathe, I then headed straight for the bathroom. I peeled off the layers of clothes I had been wearing for days, each piece carrying the grime and memory of our ordeal, and tossed them unceremoniously into the dustbin. The warm shower was pure bliss, washing away layers of accumulated dirt and dried blood. Afterwards, I submerged myself in a bathtub filled with steaming water, lying there for a full thirty minutes, letting the heat seep into my muscles, dissolving the fatigue and chasing away the lingering chill that had seeped into my very core.
Finally clean and thoroughly relaxed, I emerged from the bathroom, slipped into a new pair of soft pajamas, and drifted into the deepest sleep I'd had in what felt like an eternity.