The woods didn’t care if she lived or died.
They watched in silence while her body tore itself apart to keep breathing.
And Amelia?
She was starting not to care either.
⸻
By the second day, the hunger turned from sharp pain to a dull, constant throb.
Like her body had given up protesting.
Like it had accepted death.
But her mind—
Her mind wouldn’t let go.
⸻
Her ankle was swollen to twice its size now, a pulsing knot of agony.
Every step was a gamble—
Would it hold?
Would it snap?
Did it even matter?
⸻
She found water first.
A trickle of brown stream, barely enough to wet her cracked lips.
But she drank like it was gold.
Mud and all.
Because survival didn’t care about clean.
It cared about now.
⸻
Food was harder.
There was nothing but roots she didn’t recognize and
