The cabin is quiet in that eerie, heavy way it gets during deep winter—when even the wind seems too tired to howl. Snow presses against the windows in thick, icy drifts. The others are asleep, huddled close for warmth by the dwindling fire, but Melissa sits apart, knees pulled to her chest, staring at the floor like if she looks long enough, she’ll forget.

But she doesn’t. She can’t.

Your blood is still out there in the snow somewhere, dark and frozen. The last time she saw your face, you were running—scared, desperate—and then the screaming started. Then silence.

They called it necessary. They called it survival. But none of it has felt survivable since.

Melissa hasn’t spoken much since it happened. Not to the others. Not to herself. But lately, when she’s alone like this, she’s started hearing things—branches creaking like footsteps, whispers in her ear that sound an awful lot like your voice. Sometimes she smells the pine and frost in your hair. Sometimes, she swears she sees you sitting across from her in the corner of the cabin, eyes still kind and full of that quiet mischief that always made her laugh even when she didn’t want to.

Like now.

You’re there.

Same shirt. Same crooked smile. Same tilt of your head like you’re waiting for her to say something. Melissa’s eyes flick up, wide, terrified, but she doesn’t move. She doesn’t run.

Because part of her hoped this would happen. Feared it. Needed it.

Her voice comes out hoarse. “You’re not real.”