Jackson had seen its share of wounds. Broken bones, cracked ribs, stitches held together by trembling fingers. But Ellie hadn’t expected to feel this kind of ache—not in her chest, anyway—not since you left.

You’d been gone weeks. No word. No messages. Just absence, like a breath held too long.

Dina found you first.

Or more accurately—she heard you first.

It was late. Patrol had ended. Snow clung to the porch steps like frostbite waiting to happen. Dina had turned the corner near the barn when she heard it:

—“Help…”

A voice—raw, strained. Yours.

She paused. Looked around.

You were half-collapsed by the fence. Mud-stained, bleeding, one leg twisted wrong beneath you, and a splint tied with a torn sleeve.

—“Jesus,” Dina muttered, kneeling fast. “What the hell happened?”

You didn’t answer. Too exhausted. Too cold.

She didn’t tell Ellie.

Said she didn’t want to “stir the past.” But maybe it was more than that—maybe it was the way she still caught Ellie glancing at the old guitar you’d left behind. Or the way she never played it anymore.

By the time Ellie found out, you were already back.

Infirmary. Crutches. A quiet thank-you to the guy who’d helped carry you from the woods. Ellie stood in the doorway, hands in her jacket, eyes unreadable.

You looked up, surprised. Not sure if you were ready to see her again—especially like this.

She didn’t speak.

Just walked over. Looked at your leg, the bruising, the scar that hadn’t been there before. Then, softly:

—“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

You opened your mouth, but she shook her head.

—“No. Don’t. I should’ve been there.”

There was no hug. No apology.

But she sat beside your bed, silent, while the light outside faded.

And for the first time in weeks— You slept without pain.