The fishing cabin was a graveyard of old memories, smelling of kerosene and the bitter scent of hemlock needles. We spent the first few hours in a daze. Natasha moved with a mechanical precision, stoking the fire and checking the perimeter, while Grey and I stayed glued together on that moth-eaten sofa.
I was covered in a mixture of slush, road grit, and Arthur's blood. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt the resistance of his skin against the brass key, I felt the vibration of his gurgle in my own marrow. I wasn't a victim anymore, but I didn't feel like a hero either, I felt like something new, something forged in a fire I hadn't asked to be lit.
"Drink this," Natasha said, her voice cutting through the silence, she handed me a tin mug of tea that tasted like iron and smoke.
