She shouldn't be here. I should make her go.
But the bear has settled, calm for the first time since she appeared yesterday. And the cabin won't feel quite as empty if I have chocolate to look forward to later.
"Okay," she says, finishing the orange and tucking that peel away too. "I really am going now. Thanks for letting me see the forge. It's incredible. And for the orange-sharing moment."
She hoists her pack, adjusts the straps.
"Autumn," I say before I can stop myself.
She turns, eyebrows raised. "Yeah?"
"The knife. I'm making a knife."
Her smile could light up the entire mountain.
"Cool," she says. "Maybe you'll show me the finished product sometime."
Then she's walking away, back toward the trail that leads to town, leaving me standing in my garage with the taste of oranges on my tongue and the terrifying realization that some part of me, some stupid, reckless part, hopes she comes back.
Chapter 3 - Autumn
My legs don't start shaking until I'm completely out of sight of the garage.
Then they turn to jelly.
I have to grab onto a tree trunk to keep myself upright, my breath coming in short gasps that have nothing to do with exertion. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my fingertips, in my temples.
"Holy shit," I whisper to the empty forest. "Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit."
He's enormous. I knew that from yesterday, but somehow in the daylight, in that garage with his shirt soaked through with sweat and his muscles moving under scarred skin as he worked, the reality of his size hit me all over again. He could have snapped me in half without breaking a sweat.
And I just walked right up to him. Brought him snacks. Made him share an orange with me like we were friends.
What is wrong with me?
But even as my survival instinct screams that I'm an idiot, another part of me, the part that's been driving my whole life, the part that never learned to be satisfied with safe and ordinary, is thrilled.
He talked to me. Actually talked to me, told me things about himself. Not much, barely anything really, but more than yesterday's growled threats and demands that I leave.
"Two years," I say out loud, testing the words. Two years of teaching himself blacksmithing in a garage he built himself on a mountain where no one would bother him. Two years of making beautiful things in complete isolation.
What was he doing the three years before that? He said he's been up here five years total. What does someone do alone on a mountain for three years before deciding to become a blacksmith?
And what brought him here in the first place?
The questions chase each other through my mind as I start walking again, following the trail back toward town. My legs have mostly stopped shaking, but my heart rate hasn't quite normalized.
I can't believe I deleted that footage. I never delete footage. Every moment is potential content, potential story, potential connection with my followers. But the words came out of his mouth—*delete whatever footage you just took*—and I'd done it without thinking twice.
Something about him made me want to protect him, even from myself.
I pull out my phone as I walk, checking the battery. Seventy-three percent, and still no service. Won't get bars until I'm at least another mile down the mountain.
The smart thing would be to head straight back to town. Edit yesterday's footage, the parts I kept, anyway. Plan out the rest of the week's content. Check in with my mom, who's probably already texted me fifteen times asking if I'm alive.
But when I reach the fork on the trail, I stop. The left path leads back to town. Two hours, maybe less, all downhill.
The right path leads deeper into the mountains, following a ridge line I haven't explored yet. According to the map I studied last night at the ranger station, it eventually loops back around to connect with the main trail, but it's longer. More isolated.
