The packhouse feels heavier when we step inside, not in the loud, chaotic way it sometimes does, but in that quiet, coiled way that makes my instincts prickle before my brain can explain why. The door closes behind us and the warmth of the house settles over my skin, but the unease from the forest does not fade, it follows me in like a shadow that refuses to detach.
I spot them almost immediately.
Devin is in the living room, standing far too close to Hazel and Violet, his posture angled toward them like he is already half absorbed into whatever narrative they are feeding him, and the sight lands wrong in my stomach so fast I have to consciously slow my breathing.
Hazel is smiling.
Not her normal performative, sugary smile, but something tighter and more intentional, the kind she wears
