Mist hangs in the air like held breath. The quiet isn't peaceful; it feels tight and watchful. Even the rocks seem careful, like they remember what happened here and might break apart again if we aren't gentle. One wrong move, and the whole ravine could fall back into the past.
I breathe in. I smell damp dirt, burnt moss, and a little bit of ozone. Ember says there's also a smell like campfire worms. I don't ask about it.
Down below, where I can't see, water drips slowly and steadily. Each drop sounds like a heartbeat stuck in the stone, reminding me that time passes here, but not in a kind way.
We're back.
And already, my stomach feels uneasy, the same quiet warning I felt before everything went wrong.
There it is—the gap. Partially blocked by broken stones, it's wide enough to swallow a child and a single, awful mistake. Time hasn't filled it in, and nature hasn't healed it. The ground here remembers.
I kneel down, pressing my hand onto the cracked soil. It's cold and familiar. This is where she fell, where the ground seemed to break under her small but brave feet. My fingers twitch slightly, remembering. I can still feel the steel winch handle digging into my skin, the pulley's loud screech, the rope burning as it slid through my hands. Blood on the stone. Mine. And then, a small, weak, scared voice: "She's alive."
It was one of the Rabbits, whispering from down in the dark.
I should have stopped her. Should have seen it coming. Isn't that what I'm supposed to do? Be the one watching, the steady hand? But I looked away for a moment. I looked away and let her wander into danger, and that danger was like a hole in the world. Gravity doesn't care about what things seem like.
Without thinking, my hand closes around the rope. It creaks in my grip—old, rough, and splintering hemp, but still strong. The weight pulls. Familiar. Unforgiving. My knuckles turn white, just like they did before.
The stone wasn't the only thing that broke that day.
Some parent I am.
"Bet it won't collapse this time, right?" Ember grins, but it looks too big and cheerful for a place like this.
I try to laugh, but it sounds weak and forced, like air escaping a broken tire. My stomach still tightens up. It's a reaction, not a thought. The last time the floor here broke, I almost lost her. Jokes feel different when you remember the sound of screaming rope and seeing a child disappear into dust and darkness.
Behind us, the raccoons make their usual sneaky noises. One is already climbing the support beam, its tail twitching like it owns the whole place. They're like furry little agents of chaos. If this cave ever had gods, these bandits probably took over with a smirk and their clever little hands.
I reach for the safety line and clip it to the anchor. The movements are easy, too easy. I quietly say the checklist, like a prayer: "Anchor. Harness. Carabiner. Break strength." Each word feels like a protection. Each knot is tied without me even thinking about it.
It's muscle memory now, a routine carved deep inside me. Back then, it was about roadside bombs and bullets burning through the sand. Now it's caves, kids, and chaotic raccoons.
It's funny how the place changes, but the dangers don't.
The harness digs into my back—stiff leather heavy with the smell of old boots, stale sweat, and bad choices. Each strap reminds me I'm tied in, not truly safe. Just... delayed from falling.
Next to me, Ember tightens her own harness with a sharp grunt. No complaints about the stiffness, the dust, or the drop. That's different. Before she fell, she would have made a big deal out of any discomfort, wrinkling her nose at the harness, kicking at loose rocks like they offended her. But now, she just checks the knots, her fingers moving quickly and confidently, her jaw tight like she's holding back more than just words.
We step onto the platform. It creaks beneath us—old wood groaning under weight, as if it remembers the last time it broke. The air here feels colder than before, not just the temperature, but the feeling of it. Heavy. Still. Watching.
Ember's hand grips the safety line tighter. Her knuckles turn white. But she doesn't flinch or freeze.
She's scared.
I can see it in the way her shoulders rise slightly—not a full panic, but enough to get ready.
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And yet... she still steps forward.
Today, fear didn't win.
I look up quickly to check the anchor point and catch movement. A raccoon, of all things, leans over the edge and waves.
Actually waves.
Then, with a crazy kind of flair, it jumps off the ledge like a soldier diving into battle. The wind howls. Ember yells too. The raccoon crashes into her as she's coming down, grabbing onto her pack like it was planned.
The rope jerks. My stomach lurches. I curse under my breath, half laughing, half feeling sick.
Ember spins, her legs kicking as she holds onto the rope like it's her last chance, and the raccoon just goes along for the ride, its tail flying behind it like a flag of craziness. Judging by how unafraid it is, this probably happens all the time.
Maybe for them. For me, it brings back old feelings.
Combat drops. Fast descents. Rappelling into dangerous places where the only rule was don't die stupidly. You practice it until your body just reacts without thinking. Controlled breathing. Steady pace. Check the slack. Feed the line.
But my mind wanders anyway. It always does. Counting mistakes I thought I'd forgotten. Wrong steps. Hesitations. Times when I let someone smaller fall farther than they should have. The past doesn't need permission to come back.
Being a soldier and being a father—it's the same job, just a different place. You bring them down safely. You get them out. You don't mess up.
Our boots hit solid ground. The cavern opens up wide, swallowing the light behind us. The walls shine with wet mineral lines, every drop of water echoing like a breath in an empty chest. The air feels heavy—damp, waiting, alive.
The raccoon hops off Ember's back and disappears into the darkness, like it's no big deal. No nod. No explanation. Just gone.
Ember breathes out, her voice quiet. "Unbelievable."
I don't answer, just nod once.
Yeah. Same here.
I secure the last rope, my fingers pulling it tight with practiced ease, then step back to check the setup. The pulley swings softly in the breeze, creaking just loud enough to sound smug, like it knows I'm doubting everything and has its own opinions.
The first time I put this together, my hands were shaking, slippery with mud, sweat, and blood that kept oozing from a cut on my forearm. Most of it was mine. Ember had been still on the rocks below, her ribs cracked, her face pale and her jaw loose. She hadn't moved. And the raccoons—those damn pests—kept trying to grab the gear, snatching loops and clips like they were planning a furry revolt. One of them even ran off with a carabiner in its mouth, as proud as a thief in a storybook.
I'd thought she wouldn't survive. Not that time. Not with me. I'd messed up before, too many times. Trust too fragile. Timing too slow. Decisions made just a bit too late. You start counting mistakes like marks on a gun you wish you'd never used.
But she lived. She got better. And now she's stronger—her laughter is louder, her hands are steadier. The fear is still there in her eyes, definitely, but she moves forward anyway. Doesn't wait for it to go away.
So maybe I didn't completely fail.
"Daddy." Ember's voice cuts through the quiet like a stone skipping across still water. "It'll hold? Right? On the way back up... I mean."
"Why wouldn't it?"
"Well..." Ember starts, looking a little embarrassed. "Won't we have extra weight?"
That's a fair point. So, I don't answer right away. I just stare up at the rigging like it's a tenant behind on rent, and I'm deciding whether to kick it out or let it slide out of pity.
It should hold.
It held last time, didn't it?
Barely—when Ember was half-dead weight and sinking, mud up to her chin, blood seeping slowly through her shirt. My hands were numb, my toolkit felt light, and my breath was shallow with a fear I couldn't name. I'd built it then on instinct and habit, everything held together with curses and whatever faith I had left. Ember had been in my arms—unconscious, her ribs grinding with each weak breath. I remember the cold settling in my spine, that deep dread that stays with you long after it's over.
A sharp chirp breaks the memory. One of the raccoons tugs at the rope with the confidence of someone who knows how to cause trouble. The other three join in, trying to drag off a bag of jerky. They trip over each other, collapsing into a tangled, squealing mess of fur, claws, and annoyance.
Ember snorts, a sharp, breathy sound. "Can we... just leave them behind?"
The raccoons stop fighting and all look at Ember, their jaws dropped, eyes wide, with that familiar look of, 'Oh... no, she didn't.'
I let out a sound somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh—a tired exhale that doesn't quite know if it wants to live or die.
"No... We can't leave them behind."
The raccoons start to sigh. So, I poke at them with a little humor.
"Of course, that's not to say accidents don't happen... from time to time."
Before the raccoons can complain, my fingers move on their own, tightening the knot again. The hemp cord is rough and frayed at the edges—the same pattern I'd seen on that blown-out bridge in Kandahar. Different country. Different mission. Same kind of danger, the kind that buzzes against your skin like a live wire.
Back then, I'd patched it with duct tape and anger.
Four men made it across.
Didn't matter.
Still lost the house. Still came home to divorce papers and an empty bedroom.
But here?
Maybe here, this worn-out rope and a bunch of thieving raccoons meant something. Maybe this world still cared about effort.
"Yeah, pumpkin," I say finally, tightening one last loop. "It'll hold."