You wake to silence. No wind. No creaking floorboards. Just the sound of your own breath, shallow and uneven, like your body knows something before your mind catches up.

Lottie isn’t in bed.

You sit up, rubbing your eyes. The room is washed in silver from the moonlight slipping through the cracks in the wood. And she’s there, standing by the window. Still. Barefoot. Dressed in nothing but an old shirt that brushes her thighs.

You don’t speak right away. You’re used to her like this. Quiet. Unreachable.

Then her voice slices through the silence. Soft. Unblinking.

“There’s something in the trees.”

You blink. “What?”

She doesn’t look at you. Just keeps staring into the dark, like she’s waiting for it to stare back.

“It’s watching us,” she says. “I don’t think it likes when we sleep.”

You open your mouth to tell her it’s nothing. That she’s tired. That the crash and the cold and the hunger are messing with everyone’s head.