The sun dipped lower, brushing the clearing with amber. The scent of damp earth clung to the air, and somewhere far off, a single howl rang out—sharp, distant, and answered by silence.
I placed the last of the apples in a bowl on the counter and stepped back. I’m going to be just fine out here alone.
The pantry shelves were full. The fridge was humming. My backpack was reloaded and ready by the door in case I needed to run.
But the sun was still up, and my nerves wouldn’t settle.
I’d already checked the locks. Twice. There was nothing left to scrub or sort or sweep. And yet my hands itched for something. I needed a task. Something quiet. Something small.
I crossed to the narrow coat closet by the front door—more out of instinct than intent—and pulled it open.
The scent of cedar and
