The sun had long since set before I managed to make it back to my house from the village. After over a month of making my way around the mountain, I didn't need anything more than the light of the full moon to find my way.
Give me even more time, and I would have the entire mountain mapped out like the back of my hand.
Suddenly, the dense trees parted, and in their place was the product of all my work.
My fingers drifted across the tops of the wildflowers as I walked, brushing them just enough to release their scent into the air. Lavender, sweet mint, a touch of mountain honey. The breeze caught it and carried it toward the gate before circling back like it knew this place didn't belong to the forest anymore.
This was my home, built completely by my own hands.
The bamboo picket fence came into view, only three feet tall and a little crooked near the left post, where a deer once tried to squeeze through. I never fixed it. The fence wasn't meant to keep things out. It was meant to remind me that this… all of this…was my territory. It didn't fall from the sky or get gifted by fate. I carved it out with splinters in my hands and blood in my mouth.
The gate squeaked as I pushed it open and stepped into my world.
The flower garden came first, wild but arranged with the kind of discipline that looked effortless. I didn't do pretty for the sake of pretty. Every bloom here served a purpose. Petals for healing, roots for poison, leaves for tea. There wasn't a single inedible thing, even if consuming it meant dying. They looked soft, delicate, but they weren't. A lot like me.
Past the flowerbed sat a stone table with two stools. I only ever used one. The other remained out of habit. Dante used to say it was important to always have a second chair. "It's not for company," he told me once, lips twisted around a smile like smoke. "It's to prove you weren't afraid of being alone."
I dropped the basket of meat on the wooden chopping block and rubbed my shoulder. The butcher had tried to cut corners on the weight, treating me like an outsider.
Next time, I'd take it out of his fingers.
Inside the house, the cool air hugged my skin. The loft above still held the sleeping furs I hadn't aired out yet. I'd get to that after washing up. The fire was low in the hearth, casting soft orange light across the wood-grain floor. My home smelled like cedar, clean metal, and dried apples. Everything was familiar and safe.
Taking the meat out of the basket, I put it down on the counter right next to the large metal bowl I used as a sink. Reaching for the water bucket full of water from the stream, I washed my hands. I didn't have a well here. But the river was close, and I liked the excuse to walk. I'd filled the bucket earlier and left it near the door. Routine. Survival was in the small things.
And I thrived on routine and a schedule.
I poured the water into the bowl, letting it slosh against the tin with a sound that always reminded me of childhood. Bath nights. Garden work. Mud scraped from under nails. Dad never let us go to bed dirty.
The blade I used to carve traps slid easily through the meat. I portioned it without thinking. Half for drying, half for stew. The chickens clucked lazily outside, content to scratch through the garden soil. They roamed free, laid their eggs where they wanted, and lived better than most humans I knew. One of them hopped onto the windowsill, staring at me with all the judgment of a tax collector.
I flicked water at her. She blinked, squawked, and waddled off. I couldn't stop the smirk from forming on my face as my shoulders dropped and I started to relax.
Outside, the garden stretched behind the house, neat rows of green bursting from rich, compost-fed earth. I tended it daily, checking for rot, pests, or signs of damage. There were none. The land had learned to behave.
Shadow dozed near the fence, his tail twitching in his sleep. He snored—soft and deep—and I let him. If a wolf couldn't rest here, then the mountain meant nothing.
After I was done with the meat, I stepped out onto the porch, wiping my hands on a cloth stitched from the scraps of cloth taken from dead soldiers. The massive moon seemed to hang directly overhead, snuffing out the light of the stars around it.
Time seemed to pass strangely here. Days ran together until I had no idea how many had passed. It felt like I had been living here all my life, and yet it hadn't even been two months yet.
I didn't need a watch to know that winter was approaching. The wind had that early bite to it—the one that whispered it was time to stockpile more herbs, salt the meat, sew thicker layers.
I sat at the stone table and let myself exhale.
It wasn't the kind of breath you give when you're tired. This was the kind that came when you realized that no one was watching. There were no threats, no battles, no eyes searching for an opening… just the slightest hint of a weakness.
It was just the forest and me, and I couldn't help but be happy.
I'd once lived in a world that spun on chaos. This one did too, but slower. Softer, if you knew where to hide.
And I had made my hiding place into a home.
I looked toward the gate. Down the mountain lay the village, and past the village? I had no idea. But I didn't need to know. I had all the time in the world to explore, and I was going to enjoy it.
But first things first. If winter was coming, I was going to have to stockpile a few things. Tomorrow, I would return to the village and grab the things that I needed. Salt, more metal, blankets, clothes, all the things that I needed, but couldn't easily make in such a short amount of time.
Coming to my feet, I hummed a soft song as I turned around and walked back into my home. Tomorrow would bring its own trials, but for tonight? It was time to sleep.