Embrace the wild

Allie and Leigh

“Are you being murdered in there?” my sister’s voice cuts through the bathroom door, half-muffled by the hiss of hot water and the groaning protest of ancient pipes.

“Blame Mariah Carey for my angelic pipes!” I shout back, one hand on my shampoo-covered head. “She owes mortals everywhere an apology — you can’t compete with that level of divine suffering!”

Leigh’s laughter spills from my room, warm and alive. It wraps around me like a blanket, softening the morning. I grin at my reflection—damp hair on flushed cheeks, sleep-heavy eyes ringed with steam. For a fleeting second, I feel weightless, grounded in the comfort of being loved as I am.

When I open the door, cold air snakes around my ankles. The cabin breathes like an old creature—wooden floor groaning, cedar and smoke drifting through the halls. Winter light filters in, catching dust motes like tiny stars. Downstairs, I smell coffee and hear the soft fire, the pop of logs collapsing into ember.

The stereo in my room has been hijacked. Mariah’s real voice drifts through the air — smooth, effortless, and smug about it.

“Nailed it, right? I’m basically Mariah,” I say, stepping inside with a grin.

Leigh doesn’t even look up from lacing her boots. “Mm. If Mariah sang like a raccoon in a blender, sure.”

“Wow. Such sisterly support.”

She glances up, her mouth twitching. “Hey, at least you commit. Confidence even in a trainwreck — that’s admirable.”

I toss my towel at her. “Someday, you’ll beg me to sing at your wedding.”

She catches it midair. “At my funeral, maybe. Given our luck, that’s more likely.”

We both laugh. But as the laughter fades, her smile softens into something warm, almost protective, and the mood shifts. That’s the thing about Leigh — she’s all sharp edges and golden fire, but her heart is steady. Wild, magnetic, untamed. If she’s the storm, I’m the calm after — the one who patches up the damage, who waits for the sun.

“You running today?” I ask, leaning on the doorframe.

“Wouldn’t miss it.” She glances at the window, eyes bright. “Fresh snow. You can smell it.”

Outside, the world glows—silver, white, and still. Pines bow with frost, branches glinting like glass. Mist curls through the trees, threading between trunks like silk. The horizon blushes faint pink—the shy beginning of dawn.

“It’s freezing,” I mutter. “You’ll come back as a popsicle.”

“Worth it.” She shrugs into her coat. “The air’s clean here. Feels alive. Not like the cities. This kind of silence…” Her voice trails, reverent. “It reminds you you’re part of something bigger.”

There’s something holy in the way she says it. Out here, even the silence hums.

We head downstairs together. The wood creaks beneath us. The scent of breakfast grows stronger — bacon sizzling, maple syrup thick in the air, butter melting over biscuits. The hearthlight paints the kitchen in gold, every corner glowing like it’s alive. Snow outside glitters like crushed diamonds under the new sun.

And then I see it — our parents, standing much too close by the counter.

“Mom! Dad! Gross!” I groan, clutching my coffee mug for emotional support. “Not in communal areas!”

Leigh snorts so hard she nearly drops a plate. “Ten bucks says they were kissing again.”

Dad doesn’t even blink. “Your mother’s irresistible. Can’t help myself.” His grin is pure mischief.

Mom flushes crimson. “We were talking, thank you very much.”

“With your faces an inch apart?” Leigh fires back, grabbing bacon.

Dad high-fives her. I groan. “You’re both disgusting. I’m moving out.”

The room bursts with laughter — a sound that feels like sunlight breaking through a storm. For one suspended moment, happiness fills every corner. Moments like this are rare, fragile — a sudden brightness that always passes too soon.

Mom’s gone overboard with breakfast again — towers of pancakes, steaming eggs, biscuits slick with butter. She always says breakfast is the only time we feel like a real family instead of fugitives. I don’t argue.

I settle by the window. Outside, Montana stretches—white hills, pine, smoke curling from the chimney under a glassy sky. The wind hums through the trees, soft and constant, reminding us how far we’ve run.

Dad sits across from me, the firelight flickering on his face. He looks older—not in body, but in soul, as if secrets have left fingerprints behind his eyes.

“Girls,” he says quietly, “when you go out today, keep an eye out for any tracks near the tree line.”

Leigh’s laughter fades. “Tracks? What kind?”

“Anything unusual. We’re close to the main road. Someone might’ve wandered up.”

“Someone?” My stomach tightens. We haven’t had visitors in months.

Dad forces a smile that doesn’t touch his eyes. “Just a precaution. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

Mom’s hand lands gently on his shoulder. “That’s what you said last time,” she murmurs. “We packed within a week.”

Silence falls heavily. Even the fire seems to hush.

Leigh breaks it first. “If someone’s out there, we’ll find them. I’ll check after breakfast.”

“Take your sister,” Dad says, tone steel.

Leigh opens her mouth, then meets his eyes — and just nods. “Fine.”

The tension sits in the air, sharp as the cold waiting outside.

When we step out, the world is blinding white. The air stings, our breath blooming in ghostly clouds. Only the crunch of boots disturbs the silent snow. Pines rise tall on either side, the forest vast and still.

Leigh closes her eyes, inhales deeply. “God, I love this.”

“You love hypothermia?” I mutter, tugging my scarf higher.

She smiles faintly. “No. The quiet. How the world feels… clean out here.” Her gaze flicks toward the tree line. “Don’t you feel it? Like the forest is breathing back.”

I do. The air hums. It feels alive—unseen, ancient, aware.

Leigh kneels suddenly, brushing away a layer of snow. “Tracks.”

I crouch beside her. Two sets of prints. Human. Leading from the woods toward the cabin. The snow around them had melted slightly and had been disturbed recently.

“Could be hunters,” I whisper.

Her jaw tightens. “Or something worse.”

The wind shifts. A faint, unfamiliar scent rides on it — woodsmoke, but not ours. Older. Stale.

We both stand, scanning the forest. The horizon stretches, endless white. But deep in the trees, the shadows seem thicker. Watching.

“Come on,” Leigh says, voice low. “Let’s find out who’s watching.”

The snow crunches underfoot as we move toward the forest. Behind us, the cabin’s light flickers—warm and distant, a heartbeat fading as we go.

Something shifts ahead. A sound too soft to name.

And in this silent stretch of snow, as the wind brushes past us, a cold certainty settles: what we’ve been running from has finally found us. Fear prickles beneath my skin, sudden and undeniable.