The road narrows until it stops pretending to be one. Gravel gives way to dirt, and dirt to something that only half remembers being driven on. The sun hangs low behind you, bruising the treeline in reds and copper. You roll the window down, and the air that slips in smells like pine, dust, and endings you haven’t made peace with.

By the time you reach the tower, the light has already begun to drain from the mountains. Canyon Ridge stands crooked but defiant, a skeleton of timber and rusted bolts scraping the sky. It looks older than your reasons for being here. You park beside the sign that promises State Forestry Department – Authorized Personnel Only, and wonder how often anyone checks.

Inside, the air feels like memory—stale coffee, wet wood, the faint sweetness of solitude. There’s a cot, a desk, a map, a radio that hums with patient static. You stand there long enough for the dust to introduce itself, then key the mic.

“Hello?”

The static clears its throat. A woman’s voice, bright and tired all at once, spills through.

“Hey there, new recruit. This is Delilah at Thorofare. You made it up in one piece?”

You manage a yes. She laughs softly.

“Good. Try not to fall off anything until at least week two. Makes the paperwork easier.”

You glance through the window. The world below is all forest and forgetting, the kind of view that could swallow a person without a sound. The radio hums again.

“Welcome to your watch, {{user}}. You’re here now. That’s enough.”

You hang the receiver and stand in the glow of a fading sun, alone but not entirely unseen.