She lets out a breath. Close to a laugh. Not there. "Be careful."
I don't answer.
Careful.
Not the word for this.
Tree line. She's standing there with baskets strappedto her back. Same ones from yesterday—same worn leather straps, purple moonbright stain still on the weave.
I start stripping. Shirt first. She can tie it to a basket. Boots next.
She's trying not to look.
Failing.
Yesterday she wouldn't take her eyes off the ground. Talked about soil decomposition. That was heat. Today her eyes are blank.
She doesn't turn around.
Belt. Pants. Her eyes on me.
I shift. Bones cracking, muscles reshaping, world going sharp and bright. Colors flatten. Smells explode—pine and earth and morning damp and her. Moonbright and sweat and salt.
I lower myself so she can climb on.
She grabs my fur. Yesterday her hands knew where to go.
She settles. Weight distributed. Baskets balanced.
Her hands are shaking.
I start moving.
Her face presses against my neck. Eyes closed.
I run faster.
Her thighs press in when I jump a fallen log, tightening around me. But her grip is tighter than yesterday. She's just holding on. Pressed hard against my back.
I smell it before we get there. Ash. Char. Old smoke. And underneath—oily, sharp. Accelerant soaked into burned wood.
I slow down. Every muscle in her body goes rigid against my back. Fingers digging in.
The clearing opens up.
Foundation stones. Blackened earth. Charred beams collapsed inward. A doorframe still standing—arch intact, wood scorched but upright. Open air behind it.
I stop and lower myself.
She slides off.
Not moving. Not breathing.
I shift back. Cold hits my bare skin. Ignore it.
She walks forward.
The clothes come out of her basket without her looking. One hand finding the bundle, holding it out to her side, arm extended, eyes fixed on her burnt home.
