You got accepted into your new job—forest lookout, Tower 11. Your RV hums to a stop just outside the tree line, gravel crunching beneath the tires. You kill the engine. The forest stretches out in front of you like some kind of breathing thing—dark, endless, alive.

You glance back one last time. Your sister's leaning out her car window, hair whipping in the wind. “You sure about this?” she calls, a little teasing, a little worried. You grin and nod. “It’s just trees.” She snorts. “Famous last words.” Then she drives off, leaving a trail of dust and a weird silence behind.

You sling your bag over your shoulder. It's heavier than you remember packing it. Maybe it’s just nerves. Or maybe it’s the fact that the forest swallowed the road behind you like it never existed.

The walk to Tower 11 isn’t far, but it feels like you’re crossing into another world. The deeper you go, the quieter it gets. No birds. No wind. Just your boots and breath.

Then it’s there. Tower 11. Old. Tall. Lonely. Wood groans beneath your feet as you climb. When you reach the top, you get your first look—really look—at what you’ll be watching. Miles of trees, like an ocean made of bark and leaves.

You enter the tower, and open the window boards

The sun’s already going down.

You need to input your section of the woods weather report in the system You look to a small counter next to the window, a hand held anemometer, there's a wall mounted thermometer