The packhouse feels different the morning after the forest, not louder or quieter exactly, just off in a way that keeps my shoulders tense as soon as I step out of the bedroom, like the air itself is paying attention to me. I tell myself I’m imagining it, that I’m still riding yesterday’s adrenaline and fear, but that excuse doesn’t last long once I start moving through the halls and notice people stopping when I pass, conversations cutting off mid sentence, bodies shifting to give me space they don’t seem to realise they’re offering.
I fall back on routine because it’s the only thing that ever slows my thoughts, showering first and letting the water run hot while I scrub my hair and brush my teeth a little too hard, watching my hands in the mirror like they might glow again without warni
