I woke up alone.
That wasn't unusual.
The old man often left before sunrise. Sometimes to check traps. Sometimes to gather roots that only grew where the light barely touched the ground. He never said where he was going. He never needed to.
The fire was low but alive. Ash settled thick around the stones. One of the knives was missing.
I sat up slowly, listening.
The forest breathed the same way it always did—wind through leaves, distant birds, something small moving near the roots outside. Nothing sounded wrong. Nothing sounded urgent.
He'll be back.
I stood, stretched the stiffness from my arms, and went through the motions he drilled into me. Feed the fire. Check the door. Count supplies. Everything was where it should be, except for him.
I ate alone.
That wasn't unusual either.
By the time the sun climbed above the trees, I'd already reset two snares and cleaned yesterday's catch. My hands moved without thought. Tie. Pull. Check tension. Release. Again.
I worked faster than I needed to.
When I finished, I had nothing left to do.
That was when I noticed the quiet.
Not the forest—it was never quiet. This was different. It was the absence of something familiar. The lack of weight in the air. Like when a storm should've come and didn't.
I looked toward the path he usually returned from.
Nothing.
He said he might be gone longer sometimes, I told myself.
He had. Once. Just once. No explanation. Just a statement, like it was obvious.
I sharpened a blade that didn't need sharpening.
Midday passed.
The light shifted, cutting differently through the branches. Shadows stretched. Birds moved higher. I found myself stopping more often, listening harder.
Still nothing.
That was when I remembered the rule.
He never framed it like advice. Never like a warning. He'd said it while gutting a rabbit, voice flat, hands steady.
"If someone doesn't come back before dark," he'd said, "you don't go looking."
I'd asked why.
He hadn't answered.
At the time, I thought it was about getting lost.
Now, as the sun leaned toward the horizon, I understood it wasn't.
I stood at the edge of the clearing as the light thinned, staring into the trees. The forest looked the same as always. Tall. Endless. Uninterested.
If he was hurt, going out now would only mean two people wouldn't return.
If he didn't want to be found, looking would be worse.
If he was already—
I stopped that thought.
Night came quickly after that.
I added more wood to the fire than usual. Moved my bed closer to it. Set the knife where my hand could reach it without looking.
The other bed stayed empty.
I didn't speak. Didn't pray. Didn't ask.
I slept lightly, waking at every sound. Branches snapping. Wind shifting. Something larger moving far away.
Morning came anyway.
That was the cruelest part of the forest—it never stopped for you.
I stepped outside as the first light broke through the trees.
The air was cold. Still.
No footsteps. No smoke. No movement on the path.
I waited longer than I should have.
Then I went back inside.
I took over his tasks without thinking. Reset the traps the way he liked them, not the way I did. Cleaned the space the way he taught me. Counted supplies again and made adjustments.
I moved his things to the side.
Not out of disrespect.
Out of necessity.
By noon, I stopped waiting.
There was no moment where it became real. No sharp pain. No collapse. Just a quiet understanding that settled into my chest and stayed there.
He wasn't coming back.
In the forest, that only meant one thing.
I stood at the edge of the clearing again, staring into the trees. For the first time, there was no one to return to if I left.
The rule applied to me now.
If I went out and didn't come back, there would be no one left to notice.
I tightened my grip on the knife and stepped back inside.
"I'll live," I said quietly.
Not for him.
Not for anyone.
Because living was the rule.
And I followed rules better than angels ever did.