I hadn't gone into his room before.
Not properly.
It was at the back of the cabin, half-hidden behind a door that never quite shut. I'd passed it every day since he stopped coming back, always aware of it, always choosing not to look inside. Some places felt like they stayed intact as long as you ignored them.
That morning, I opened the door.
The air inside was stale, thick with dust and old paper. A narrow window let in a strip of light that cut across a small desk buried under books, journals, and loose sheets. Everything was arranged with purpose. Not neat—deliberate.
Nothing here was decoration.
I stepped inside, half-expecting him to tell me to stop.
He didn't.
The first journal I picked up was worn thin, the cover soft from use. The writing inside was tight and compact, lines pressed close together as if space mattered. Margins were crowded with later notes—corrections, warnings, additions written harder than the rest.
Most of it wasn't about hunting or shelter.
It was about patterns.
Spoken words don't end at people.
The land reacts first.
Animals flee before men notice.
I frowned.
I'd seen all of that. I just never thought of it as something worth recording.
Further in, the notes became stranger. Rough diagrams of trees and rivers. Arrows connecting copied fragments of scripture to cracked ground, twisted roots, disturbed soil. Some passages were underlined heavily. Others were scratched out so hard the paper almost tore.
Warnings showed up more than explanations.
Too much draws attention.
Too little invites correction.
Either way, you're noticed.
I sat down slowly.
He never told me any of this.
Another journal was thinner, older. Inside were short phrases written again and again, slightly different each time. Next to them were brief notes.
Works, but costs more.
Unstable.
Don't repeat.
Avoid.
A dull ache formed behind my eyes. The kind that came from holding too many thoughts still at once.
I stopped reading.
Whatever this was, it wasn't meant to be understood all at once. And understanding it wrong felt worse than not understanding it at all.
As I went through the rest, a pattern formed. Incomplete, but heavy.
People weren't treated differently because of what they did.
They were treated differently because of what they had.
Some carried too much of it. Some carried almost none. Either way, they didn't get left alone.
I thought of the town. The way they watched me. The way fear and devotion had felt exactly the same.
I still didn't know where I fit.
Whether I had far too much of whatever this was…
or not enough.
I gathered what mattered—journals, loose papers, folded diagrams—and wrapped them carefully in cloth. Not out of respect. Out of caution. Like carrying tools you didn't yet know how to use without cutting yourself.
I placed everything into my bag.
Not to study now.
To keep.
When I stepped back into the main room, the cabin felt smaller. Like it could no longer pretend it was just a place to sleep.
I didn't try to speak any of the words I'd read.
I didn't test anything.
I knew enough to know that would be stupid.
---
The seasons passed.
Leaves fell. Snow came early and thin, then heavier. Melted. Returned. I stayed alive through all of it.
I learned the forest more deeply than before. Which paths felt wrong before anything appeared. Which silences meant danger. When the air grew heavier for no clear reason and when to move before something else noticed.
More than anything, I learned restraint.
If speaking made the world respond, then silence mattered.
I spoke only when necessary.
And every time, there was a cost.
A year passed.
By the time the snow melted for the last time, the boy who had woken bleeding in the forest was gone. What remained moved quietly, wasted nothing, and paid attention.
I still didn't know what any of it was called.
I still didn't know what that something inside people really was.
I didn't need to.
I adjusted the strap of my bag and stood at the edge of the clearing, listening to the forest breathe.
This place had kept me alive.
That didn't mean it always would.
When it stopped being safe—
I'd leave.
Until then, I would survive.