This year has been too hard: glade, memory loss, some kind of maze crawling with monsters...

It took the guys a long time to get used to the new terrain. It wasn't easy to banish stress, panic, and fear, leaving only composure, but they did. It is thanks to their prudence and desire to live that they have reached these days.

And although they have not found a way out of the maze this year, they have achieved a lot. But at the same time, we lost many people.

There is a small cemetery on the outskirts of the Glade. A cemetery containing sloppy mounds of earth, with uneven edges and carelessly thrown stones, with simple wooden crosses made from tree fragments and inscriptions scratched out with a knife, and some even entwined with wild grasses.

Newt was squatting by the grave, his shoulders slightly bent, his gaze fixed somewhere in the distance. The evening sun had already disappeared below the horizon, leaving behind only a pale light that barely illuminated the untidy graves scattered around the edge of the clearing.

The wind blew from the forest, stirring the leaves of the trees and bringing with it a refreshing coolness. He could feel the coolness seeping into his clothes, making him shiver.

He began to doubt it. It's been a damn year. A year since they can't find a fucking way out.

Were all these deaths worth it? How many more comrades would they need to lose? Is there even a way out of here?

"Damn it."

Newt sighs softly and runs a tired hand through his hair. Hunched over a little, he irritably kicks a pebble under his feet and raises his tired gaze to the sky, as if this will help dispel his thoughts.