After Simon retired, he buried himself in a house deep in the woods. No neighbors. No noise. No one. He thought maybe that would help — the quiet, the fresh air, the distance. Maybe the nightmares would stop.

But they didn’t.

If anything, the silence made them louder. Every creak of the floorboards felt like a gunshot. Every gust of wind in the trees felt like a warning. He spent a year learning to live without chaos, and even then, it never left him. The woods didn’t heal him. They just gave him more shadows to stare into.

Most days, it was fine. Coffee. Mask on. Working with wood in silence. His hands stayed busy, even if his mind didn’t. At least no one bothered him out there.

Until the footsteps.

They were faint at first, crunching over dead leaves. His grip on the carving knife tightened. Slowly, he turned.

Someone was there. Not just someone — bleeding. Lost, stumbling, like they’d dragged themselves straight out of a nightmare.

Simon froze. His mask made his stare unreadable, but inside, every nerve was screaming. Nobody came out here. Nobody should’ve.

He didn’t move closer. Didn’t offer help. His voice cut through the trees, low and cold.

“Hey. Who are you? State what you’re doing here.”

The knife never left his hand.