Three months.
If Jake tried to count the days one by one, he'd lose track somewhere after the second week. Time had stopped being numbers on a calendar. It was now a series of sunrises, cold mornings, and nights where the fire's warmth felt like the only real thing left in the world.
The boy he'd been when he first woke up alone in this forest felt like a stranger now — a weaker, hungrier, clumsier version of himself. Back then, his hands were soft, his bowstring felt alien, and every sound in the woods made him flinch. Now, his palms were calloused, his fingers rough with small scars from carving arrows and scraping bark. The bow was still crude, but it was an extension of him now, resting by his side whenever he stopped to breathe.
He could start a fire without wasting too much time, matches had long ran out, He knew which berries to leave alone. He could tell when a rabbit was nearby just from looking for droppings and footprints, no matter how hard that was during winter.
It wasn't easy. It had never been easy.
There were nights where the wind howled so loudly it drowned out the crackling of the fire, nights where the cold crept into his bones so deep he thought he might never wake up. He'd spent entire days chasing faint tracks only to come back empty-handed, surviving on water and it's bitter taste, the dull ache that flowed through his whole body, about how he had woken up without any results and and him picking himself up, as much as he could at the very least. He had a promise to keep after all.....
Stay alive. Keep moving.
His parents' voices — in memory, not in reality — had never left him. His only solace during those arduous months. The promise he'd made to them was etched into every decision he made. From dawn to dusk
His tarp roof wasn't perfect, but it had kept him dry through more than one storm. The lean-to was small — barely enough space for him to curl up in — but that was all he needed. A bigger shelter would take more work, more materials, and he wasn't about to waste strength on something that wasn't absolutely necessary.
And another thing that he learnt the hard way was that even nature adapted, animals wouldn't fall for simple traps any longer, some still did but "some" wasn't enough to fill your stomach. You had to go out, get your hands dirty, no matter how disgusting it may be, no matter if it made you puke everything in your guts. You HAD to do it.
The bow… the bow was still his lifeline. It needed constant care. Every couple of days he'd restring it, check the tension, make sure the wood hadn't split. His arrows were mismatched lengths, their tips uneven, but they worked well enough for small game. He owed that knowledge to video games — all those hours spent crafting items on a virtual screen had, against all odds, turned into something real.
When playing video games....do you ever think, about how the character you are playing as feels about the things happening around them?
Well, I certainly didn't and as a huge fan of survival, I thought it was fun....until I experienced it myself.
It still amazed him sometimes. He'd never thought pretending to survive in a digital forest would help him here, in this real one.
And yet, here he was.
He took a slow breath, rubbing warmth into his fingers before grabbing the firewood he had gathered, it was just a few sticks, needed a little more....
The forest was quieter than usual. No birdsong, just the faint crunch of his boots over frost-bitten leaves. The wind still had a bite to it, even through the snow was drying up. He followed the familiar path away from camp, eyes scanning for fallen branches dry enough to burn. He kept his bow slung over his shoulder — habit, even when the only thing he was hunting was firewood.
It didn't take long before his arms were full, the bundle of sticks pressing awkwardly against his chest. He'd have to make two trips to gather enough for the night.
He was about to turn back when a sound made him freeze.
Not the wind. Not an animal.
Voices.
Human voices.
His heart slammed against his ribs.
It had been so long since he'd heard anyone else speak that for a split second, he thought he was imagining it. But no — there it was again. Low, muffled words carried through the cold air.
Instinct told him to run. People weren't safe. People meant risk.
But then, shapes emerged from between the trees. Two men — older, taller, bundled in worn jackets. One had short-cropped hair and eyes that scanned the surroundings like he'd done this a hundred times before. The other was broader, carrying himself like someone who'd seen his share of work.
Both had weapons he'd only seen in games
Actual GUNS!!!
Jake's grip on the firewood tightened.
They weren't looking at him yet. But when they did — when their eyes found the small boy's, half-hidden by frost-covered brush — he could feel the weight of it. Not like the gaze of a predator, but something heavier.
He swallowed hard.
For three months, he'd been alone. Alone had meant safe. Alone had meant no one could take from him, no one could hurt him.
Now, staring at these strangers, Jake wasn't sure if this was the beginning of something better… or the end of the world he'd built for himself.