Hot. Thank you. Are you there?
I drag in a slow breath and look back toward the station.
Elias has gone inside. The porch is empty now, soft golden light spilling from the windows as evening settles in.
I tell myself to go home. To rest and work on the Yellowstone server. Answer Akai’s fourteen messages about Solstice costume themes. Check on the fiber line in Sector H. Anything but hovering here like a lovesick cedar stump.
I take one step away. Then another. I don’t look back.
But I feel him behind me. His presence is like a warm ember in the cold twilight.
And despite every rule I’ve made for myself, every instinct that says walk away, every logical argument about species boundaries and heartbreak, I know I’ll check on him again.
Tomorrow.
And the next day.
And the next after that.
Because Elias Hart has carved out a corner of my rib cage and settled in without permission.
And I… I don’t know how to make him leave.
Or if I even want to.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ELIAS
April has always beenmy favorite month out here. Everything wakes up at once, like the entire forest hits a collective snooze button in March and finally decides it’s ready to exist again. The meltwater finishes its tantrums. The first tiny wildflowers appear in defiance of the weather. The wind stops trying to flay my face off every morning.
And I swear the trees get louder.
Not literally—they’re not holding conversations. Probably. But every creak and groan and rustle feels energized now that winter is truly behind us.
Two weeks have passed since the concussion incident, and my head has more or less forgiven me for the trauma. I still get the occasional throb if I bend too quickly or look up too fast, but I can hike long distances again without feeling like my skull is floating separately from my body. My research is back on track. My sensors are cooperating. My trails are familiar again, and for the first time this season, the work feels smooth and satisfying.
The only thing not returning to normal is me.
It’s nothing I can articulate, not even in the privacy of my own head, but the sensation that I’m not alone has intensified rather than faded. At first, I chalked it up toconcussion aftereffects, but a person can’t maintain a two-week hallucination that consistently behaves according to wildlife patterns. That’s not how hallucinations work. Also, hallucinations do not fix broken railings or repair fallen solar mounts with remarkable precision.
Something has been watching over me.
Not stalking, not hunting, not threatening—just… present.
I still find the occasional footprint by the station. They’re always gone by the time I check again, softened or washed by rain, but the shape is unmistakable. Not a bear. Not a human. Not anything I have ever documented on any of the surveys I’ve participated in.
And every time I find one, my chest tightens with anticipation rather than fear. Which is absurd. Absolutely, wildly absurd.
I should be reporting these sightings. I should be documenting them rigorously. I should be taking a million photos and cataloging soil compression and stride length and analyzing gait patterns.
Instead, I stare at them too long and feel ridiculous things like gratitude and curiosity and… an emotion I am absolutely not going to name.
Today, I have a long hike along the ridge, double-checking the microclimate station that still looks suspiciously well-maintained for a structure battered by three winters.
The air up here is cool and clean, edged with the tang of snow still clinging to the higher peaks. Patches of old ice linger in the shadows beneath the trees, but most of the trail is soft with thawed earth and last year’s needles. My boots slide slightly with each step, making that quiet sucking sound of mud letting go.
About halfway between the station and the microclimate pole, the feeling hits me again.