The world outside felt heavy—too heavy. The oppressive weight of the curse, of endless shifting realities, hung like a dark cloud above Emily and George as they walked, side by side, through the woods. The ground beneath their boots was soft, the air cool and fresh, carrying the scent of earth and pine. A rare stillness had settled over them since the chaos of the last reality, a brief lull they both craved, though neither would admit it aloud.
Emily didn't speak much these days—nothing felt like it could adequately explain the knot in her stomach, the swirl of confusion and anger that seemed to consume her whenever she stopped moving. But here, in this strange, peaceful place, her breathing felt easier. The trees, tall and ancient, wrapped around her like old friends, their branches reaching toward the sky in quiet solidarity. In their shade, she could breathe without feeling like someone—or something—was breathing down her neck.
George, as always, tried to fill the silence with his usual banter. But today, his words were quieter, more thoughtful, as if he, too, felt the weight of their shared history pressing down on them.
"You know, I've always liked the woods. Peaceful. No one bothering you." He kicked a small stone off the path and glanced at Emily from the corner of his eye, a playful smirk still tugging at the corners of his lips. "Just you, me, and the trees... and the occasional squirrel that thinks it's a ninja."
Emily's lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile threatening to break through. "You'd probably talk to the squirrels if they'd let you."
"I would," he said seriously, "and I'd give them some great advice. They'd probably be living their best squirrel lives if I had my way."
She rolled her eyes, though the smile lingered a moment longer than she expected. It wasn't much, but it was enough to make George feel like he'd won something. Emily, in all her layers of complexity, wasn't easy to crack. She wore her solitude like armour, and he couldn't help but admire the way she carried herself, even if it was with a quiet kind of defiance.
But there were moments—moments like this one—when the armour slipped just a little when the weight of everything they'd been through seemed too much for even her to bear. It was in those moments, when her guard was down, that he wished he could do more. To make her forget the chaos, if only for a while.
He noticed the way she seemed to relax, her shoulders softening as she stepped deeper into the shade. The peacefulness of the forest, the absence of danger, seemed to work its magic on her. It was as though this was where she belonged—where everything else faded into the background. But George couldn't shake the feeling that this calm was fleeting. He knew Emily. He knew the cracks she tried to hide, the things she couldn't talk about. And he knew, deep down, that her restlessness wasn't going to vanish just because they had found some quiet woods.
"So," he said, trying to keep the mood light but adding a hint of seriousness to his tone, "what's the verdict, Em? Can we just... live here? Forget about the curse and the crazy book and the whole alternate reality thing. I could be the local squirrel expert, and you could—well, you could figure out the best way to stay distant from everyone. You know, as always."
Emily shot him a look. "You'd probably talk to the squirrels if they'd let you."
"I would," he said, grinning. "And I'd teach them everything they need to know. Maybe they'd stop hoarding all the best nuts and share a few with me."
Emily's lips twitched again. It was a fleeting thing, but George caught it. Every time she let her guard down, even just a little, it felt like a small victory. But it also made him realize just how much of her was hidden beneath layers of sarcasm and distance. He wanted to peel those layers back, wanted to get to the part of her that trusted, that didn't feel like she had to carry the weight of everything alone. But he wouldn't press her. Not now, not here. They were in a place where the only pressure was the weight of the past pressing against them.
"I don't think I'd make a very good recluse," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "I'm tired of hiding from everything."
Her words caught him off guard. It wasn't just that she was tired of the curse, of the madness they'd been dragged into. It was that she was tired of hiding—of keeping her true self locked away. George felt a pang of something sharp in his chest. He wanted to tell her that she didn't have to hide from him, that he'd never ask her to, but the words stuck in his throat. He wasn't sure how to offer that kind of comfort. He never was.
"I get that," George said after a beat, his voice soft. "But, y'know, you don't have to do it alone. Not if you don't want to."
The words hung in the air between them, an unspoken truth that neither of them fully grasped. Emily wasn't just tired of the world. She was tired of being alone in it, and she didn't know how to let anyone in. Not completely. But with George... it felt like maybe, for the first time in a long while, she could.
The silence stretched on as they continued walking, the rhythm of their steps synchronized without either of them having to try. The trees thinned out as they moved deeper into the woods, the path narrowing, until they emerged into a small clearing. The sun was beginning to dip low in the sky, casting long shadows across the forest floor, and the soft babbling of a nearby stream reached their ears.
Emily stopped, her boots crunching softly against the dry leaves beneath her. The sight before her was something she hadn't seen in a long time. It wasn't grand or impressive. Just a small, quiet stream, its water glistening faintly as the last rays of the sun hit it. The air here smelled like moss and earth, the silence almost sacred.
She took a breath, the air thick with memories she had tried to push down for years. "I used to come here with my dad," she said, her voice low, almost lost in the rush of the stream. "Before everything got... complicated. It's where I'd go to think when things felt too much."
George stepped up beside her, his gaze following hers to the water. He could see the subtle shift in her demeanour, the way she seemed to let herself feel something in this place. For a moment, he didn't speak. He wasn't sure if words would be enough if they ever could be. But he had to say something.
"It's nice here," he said after a beat, his voice soft. "Simple. No one asking questions."
Emily nodded, though she didn't take her eyes off the stream. "Yeah. Peaceful. It's where I'd go to forget about everything... even if it was just for a little while."
George didn't push. He knew Emily didn't like to talk about her past, about the things that made her the way she was. But he also knew that part of her wanted to share—wanted someone to understand, even if she didn't know how to say it. He'd never been good at pushing past her defenses, but he didn't have to. He had time. And he was patient.
Instead, he just stood beside her, watching the water flow. The world felt quieter here, the weight of their lives just a little bit lighter.
The breeze picked up, rustling the leaves above them, and Emily shivered slightly, not from the cold, but from something deeper. Something she didn't know how to name. She glanced over at George, unsure if she should say something more, but the words seemed trapped. The truth about what she felt for him, for everything, seemed to weigh more than the reality they were living.
"Do you ever think about the future?" Emily asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
George looked at her, surprised by the question. He thought for a moment, then shrugged, trying to make it sound less serious than it felt. "I try not to. Too much stuff going on right now to think too far ahead." He gave her a wry grin. "But I do think about squirrels. They've got it figured out."
Emily let out a short laugh, the sound lighter than it had been in days. She didn't know why, but something in her felt warmer, and safer at this moment. Like, maybe, just maybe, she wasn't as alone as she thought.
They stood together, side by side, the sun sinking lower, the silence between them no longer uncomfortable but something more comfortable, more shared. The moment felt fragile like it might slip away at any second, but neither of them was in a hurry to let it go.