Cheyenne leaves the border slowly, not because she wants to linger, but because some part of her refuses to turn her back too fast.
It’s instinct, old and stubborn. The kind that doesn’t trust clean endings.
The forest feels normal again. Too normal. The night has settled into its usual rhythm, insects humming in overlapping patterns, leaves whispering under a light breeze that carries nothing sharp or wrong. No movement behind her. No pressure at her spine. No sense of being followed.
Still, she checks anyway.
Once, over her shoulder, casual enough to pass for habit.
Then again, slower, letting her senses stretch outward. Scent. Sound. The faint disturbance of air between trunks.
A third time before she forces herself to stop.
Layla stays alert beneath her skin, not bristling, not
