Spring

  ~ A Meeting by the Fire ~

  The morning arrived not with the biting cold of winter nor the dreary silence of autumn but with birdsong and sun rays. With gold spilling through the branches. You had been awake before that, sitting on a chair, waiting for the world to stir. For nature’s resurrection.

  6:15.

  Somehow, you had survived winter and its terrible wrath; the grim tempest had tried to reap you. Brought you to the lowest point of your life, one you’d never fully come back from. You had stared at the edge of yourself for too long. But you endured. That was the way of things now. And in the grip of this cruel master that was thanatophobia, you found yourself savouring the smallest of gifts.

  Buds swelled on the limbs of shifting trees. Squirrels leapt up and down the bark. Bees frolicked in unfurling petals. And you watched it all unfold, drinking warm tea on your porch. But you did not linger too long, not more than needed, for there was work to be done.

  You moved with purpose. The axe biting into logs; your hands readying the traps. There was food to gather, supplies to store, training to maintain. A mark on the calendar to track progress.

  May 7th.

  You wouldn’t be caught unprepared again. Survival became a compulsion, seeping into every movement, every decision and restless debate. By midday, sweat would bead along your spine, and you would push through until your muscles were left aching. Only then would you retreat inside, drawn to the sanctuary of handbooks.

  Stacked in a corner, a forgotten library lay in wait. Your fingers brushed over worn covers. So many of them, so much knowledge written by those who never saw the end play out, yet who had unknowingly armed you for its ruin. Manuals and herbal guides, field medicine and camping tricks. Bound in time, carved entertainment to consume, weapons for the future.

  In faded ink, your eyes found their way across pages, lips forming the silent echoes of words abandoned. A foraging guide, its sketches of leaves and stems sending your thoughts soaring beyond the cabin, above the treetops and past the stars. Warnings of poison, promises of sustenance, contraptions to craft, optimisations to make. Resources to gather before the sun dipped beneath the trees once more.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Knowledge was subsistence, and subsistence… everything. Exhilarating. You had found a new passion. An obsession. A drive in a motorless world. And already, so much to look forward to, so much you wished to share.

  And no one to share it with.

  The infected had returned and threatened your perimeter. Animals trampled over your struggling crops. Insects burrowed their way into your home. But you couldn’t recall the last time you’d heard the sound of a voice. Seen the shift of an iris. Felt the warmth of skin on skin.

  Until one evening. When the folly of an afternoon spent under the sun and enjoying the fresh weather had filled your lungs with an air dangerously close to peace. You had wanted to roast meat. A habit rooted in the barbecues of dominical gatherings. You had deftly skinned the rabbit, had readied the fire. A meal earned, a moment taken. The sun bled into the horizon, fuchsia and amber sinking into the landscape. And you basked in its colour harmony.

  A peace soon broken.

  Missteps in the woods had sent your instincts, honed by months of fighting for your life, into the usual adrenaline rush and panicked assessment. The rifle, already aimed and reloaded, pointed at a silhouette in the underbrush.

  You had been cautious. You had threatened, had ordered him back from whence he came. But in a matter of a few sentences, the man had found the gaps in your defences. He was a survivor, like you. Scraping by and counting days. He had no reason to hurt you. Not now and not in this place. Although he would come to do it at some point.

  That day, he had been harmless.

  But more than this, he’d been charming. Wry and warm. The kind of presence you had not known you starved for until it had sat across from you, grinning over the burning coals. He shared similarities with you and differences that intrigued you. Your conversation flowed naturally. He was a stranger. And yet, he could have been a close friend. A brother. The ghost of all those lost. He filled a void that had been silent. Spreading.

  The minutes gave way to hours, and soon the night had swallowed every shape and settled over you two, locked into the bubble of this meeting by the fireplace. A bubble that resounded with laughter, with echoes of memories shared. With uncertainty and fear.

  And the bubble had popped. The spell broken.

  The man talked about a group, a community taking shape into the heart of the city. A gathering of will and wit to last against the storm. Even a future, perhaps. The anxiety came rushing in through the opening of this fantasy’s outer layer. And before long, you forgot brothers and friends and remembered the pain. The gnawing doubt had crept back into your mind.

  What lunacy had compelled you to let this man in? To let him share your fire and your food, so ardently acquired? A recklessness you aimed to fix. Just as he had appeared, the man left. Forced away by your insistence and sent back into the darkness. But not without extending one last invitation. One last breath taking a shape of its own.

  His name was Rook.

  And perhaps it meant nothing. But some days after, it felt like you had known him, a piece of yourself stolen again, craving to be filled.

  His name was Rook.

  And you might as well… give in.

  ***