The days stretch on in a blur of worry and routine. I keep myself busy, forcing one foot in front of the other because stopping feels dangerous. Stopping means letting the weight of it all crash down.
Mornings begin the same. I wake up to the cold nip of the air against my skin and the crackling of the dying embers in the small fire pit. I check on her first thing, the girl lying still as a doll in the corner of the shack. Her breathing has stayed steady, her color slightly better than when I found her, but it's hard to ignore how much thinner she's becoming.
Each time I look at her, it's impossible not to notice her fragility—the sharp angles of her cheekbones, the way her collarbones jut out more each day. It gnaws at me. She's getting weaker, and no amount of first aid or care seems to change that. She needs proper food, more than I can scavenge or catch, but what am I supposed to do? The scraps I manage barely keep me on my feet.
The third day after her fever broke, I leave her side to head back into the village. I've got no choice. She might not be eating, but I still need to. If I don't keep my strength up, who's going to be here to keep her alive?
I manage to get a job clearing snow off the roofs of the village bakery and the tavern. The work is brutal; the cold bites through my gloves, my fingers go numb, and my back aches from the constant shoveling. The coins I earn aren't much, but they're better than nothing.
On the way back, I stop by the butcher's shop, hoping for scraps. The butcher gives me a look I know too well—half pity, half disdain—but hands me a small sack with some bone scraps. They're barely enough to flavor a stew, but they'll have to do.
Each night, I cook what little I can. The fire in the corner of the shack keeps the worst of the chill at bay, but the dampness in the air seeps into everything. I sit beside her as she sleeps, talking softly, not really expecting a response.
"Where'd you come from, huh?" I ask one night, stirring the thin broth I managed to make from the butcher's scraps. "What were you doing out there in the middle of nowhere? Were you running from someone? Or something?"
Of course, there's no answer. Just the quiet crackle of the fire and the sound of her slow, even breathing. I glance over at her, my chest tightening at how small she looks. It's weird, but I'm starting to feel… protective of her. Like keeping her alive is the most important thing I've ever done.
By the fifth day, it's become routine. Wake up. Check on her. Scavenge for food. Do odd jobs in the village. Come home. Make a meal. Sit with her.
Her wound seems to be healing, at least. The makeshift bandages I've been using need changing daily, and though it's not a pretty sight, the bleeding has stopped. I clean the area as gently as I can, wincing whenever she flinches or stirs in her sleep.
Sometimes, when I'm out working, I catch myself thinking about what'll happen when she wakes up. Because she will wake up—right? She has to. But then what? She'll see me, thank me, and then what? Walk out the door without a second thought?
I hate how much the idea bothers me. I've been alone for so long, and for the first time, it feels like someone needs me.
The sixth day starts like any other. I'm back from a long day of splitting firewood for one of the villagers, my arms sore and my stomach growling. I'm halfway through reheating some stew when I hear a sound—a soft, muffled groan.
I freeze.
Turning slowly, I see her. Her head shifts on the makeshift pillow, her eyes fluttering open just a sliver.
For a moment, I think I'm imagining it. Then her eyes blink open fully, hazy and unfocused, but undeniably awake.
"Hey," I breathe, moving closer. "You're awake."
She tries to speak, but her voice is little more than a croak. I grab the cup of water I'd set beside her earlier, helping her lift her head enough to take a sip.
Her lips part, her voice hoarse. "Where… am I?"
My throat tightens. I don't even know how to answer that.
"You're… safe," I say finally. "You're in my home. You were hurt, but you're okay now. I… I took care of you."
Her eyes flicker to mine, and for a moment, we just stare at each other. It's strange. I've spent almost a week looking after her, but seeing her awake feels completely different. There's a spark of life in her eyes now, something that wasn't there before.
She looks like she wants to say something else, but her eyelids are already drooping again, exhaustion pulling her back under.
"Rest," I say quietly, adjusting the blanket around her. "You need it."
As she drifts off, I sit back, letting out a shaky breath. Relief washes over me, but it's mixed with something else—something heavier.
She's awake. She's alive.
And suddenly, I realize how much I've started to care.