The cabin smells like pine and cold wood when I step inside.
It always does. Clean. Quiet. Familiar in a way that feels earned rather than inherited. I close the door behind me and lock it out of habit, the sound sharp in the stillness. The click echoes longer than it should. Nothing follows.
I stand there longer than necessary, boots still on, hand resting lightly against the doorframe. The instinct to listen runs deeper than thought now. I catalog the space without looking. Table. Hall. Bedroom. Kitchen window facing the tree line. Nothing out of place.
My wolf does not relax.
She circles, alert, attention stretched thin across the perimeter like wire pulled too tight. Not fear. Awareness.
I move through the cabin slowly, touching familiar things as I pass. Counter. Chair back. Sink
