We didn't speak as we walked.
The street widened the farther we went, and the fog thinned with it, retreating into alleys and doorways like it was pretending it hadn't been following me at all. It stayed low, hugging the cracks in the pavement, clinging to the base of walls and the undersides of broken signs.
My legs carried me at an even pace.
Steady.
Balanced.
Wrong.
Each step landed exactly where it needed to, heel first, weight rolling forward in a way I hadn't chosen. I could feel the muscles working, but the decisions didn't belong to me.
Claire walked a few steps ahead at first. Then she slowed, just enough that I wouldn't drift behind her.
She didn't offer her shoulder.
She didn't take my arm.
She just adjusted her pace.
In the dim light, I finally saw her clearly.
Her hair was long and blonde, tied into a loose ponytail that brushed the center of her back. Strands slipped free as she moved, catching on the straps of her pack and clinging there until she tugged them loose again.
Her jacket hung loose on her narrow frame, sleeves rolled up and stained at the cuffs. A thin scarf covered her throat, and her pants were patched at the knees with crooked stitching. Even her boots looked rebuilt more than bought.
She was shorter than me by more than a head, lean and narrow-shouldered, built for distance, not impact.
Not fragile.
Just… human.
She looked like she belonged to a world that still had roads.
Not this one.
More than once, she glanced at my feet.
Not openly.
Like she didn't want me to notice.
I did anyway.
We found shelter in the shell of a storefront, its windows boarded from the inside with warped planks nailed across the frames. The sign above the door had burned away years ago, leaving only pale ghost-lines where letters used to be.
Claire tested the door with her shoulder, then slipped inside.
"Sit."
"I can—"
"You can be moved," she cut in. "Sit."
My legs bent before I decided to argue. The fog folded me down against the wall like setting a tool aside.
Dust drifted from the ceiling when I hit the brick.
She knelt in front of me and untied the bandage at my side. The cloth came away dark and stiff. When she pressed a clean square against the wound, the world narrowed to heat and pressure.
I hissed through my teeth.
"You're too calm," she said.
"I'm not calm."
"You're not shaking." She pressed harder. "Most people shake when they're losing blood."
I looked at my hands.
They were steady.
Not clenched.
Not trembling.
That felt worse than pain.
"You used it," she said.
"I had to."
"That fog… it didn't just help." Her fingers tightened. "It took."
The hollow in my head widened when I tried to look directly at it—like staring into a bright light through fogged glass.
"It took something," I said. "I can feel where it was."
Her eyes lifted to mine. "What did it take?"
"I don't know."
She sat back on her heels.
"That's worse."
Outside, the fog brushed against the boards covering the windows.
Not pushing.
Not forcing.
Just resting there.
Listening.
I tried to picture the man she had spoken about earlier. The one she lost.
Nothing came.
My thoughts slid away from him like oil on water.
But my body didn't forget.
My grip tightened around my knee. My shoulder shifted as if preparing for a strike that never came.
Claire noticed.
"Your body reacts when you think about him," she said.
"I don't remember him."
"That doesn't mean you don't know him."
The fog crept closer to my calves.
Not touching.
Pressing.
A warning.
Not words.
Just pressure.
She finished tying the new bandage and stood, shouldering her pack. "We move before something smells your blood."
When we stepped back onto the street, she didn't walk ahead of me this time.
She walked beside me.
Not close.
Just closer than before.
The fog followed behind us like a patient thing with no need to hurry.
(Next chapter: Five)