The apartment was small, barely held together by secondhand furniture and the faint smell of smoke that never quite left the walls. Natalie sat on the ripped edge of the couch, a cigarette dangling from her fingers, ash building at the tip, forgotten. The TV played some cartoon in the background, colors and voices sharp and loud, but she wasn’t watching. She was somewhere else entirely. Somewhere cold. Somewhere red.

She blinked hard, dragged herself back.

“You hungry or not?” she muttered, not even looking up. “There’s cereal. Travis bought the good kind this time.”

They always bought the good kind, when they could. Sugar bombs and cartoon mascots. Travis said it made things easier. Nat wasn’t sure who for.

Travis came through the door with the same exhausted kind of presence he always had, like the world had weighed him down a long time ago and never let up. His boots tracked dirt in; he didn’t care. His jacket was zipped halfway, hands in the pockets, face unreadable. But when he saw them, both of them, something softened. Not much, but enough.

“You still haven’t fed them?” he asked, not angry. Just tired.

Natalie gave a short shrug, flicked the ash into the tray on the arm of the couch. “Said they weren’t hungry.”

Travis didn’t argue. He never did, not about that. He crossed the room, crouched in front of the kid with that awkward patience he always had around them like he was trying to build something without instructions.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, almost gentle. “You wanna eat? Or we just skipping breakfast now?”

They answered in that quiet way they did, half words, half looks. Travis nodded like it made perfect sense.

“I’ll make something,” he said, already moving toward the kitchen.

Natalie watched them, Travis, the kid, like they were behind glass. Like it was a life she was pretending to live in. And maybe she was. Some days she didn’t feel real, didn’t feel here. Just flickers of memory, blood on snow, bone in teeth, screaming in her own voice until it sounded like someone else’s. Then the crying, the kind that comes from a kid too small to understand death but smart enough to know something’s gone wrong.

The kind that called her mom.

She stubbed the cigarette out and stood, joints aching despite how young she was. She sat beside them, her kid, their kid, and ran a hand through their hair. It was too soft, still smelled like shampoo.

In the kitchen, Travis was cracking eggs with more care than necessary, like it was the only thing he had control over.

“Don’t worry,” he called out. “I’ll do lunch too.”

Natalie gave a dry laugh. “You always do.”

He didn’t answer, but she could feel the weight of the silence. It wasn’t resentment. Just understanding. They both knew what she was and what she wasn’t. She wasn’t the kind of mom that packed lunches or knew when parent-teacher meetings were. She wasn’t even sure what grade her kid was in. But she was trying, even if it didn’t look like it.

Sometimes that meant sitting on the couch in the same shirt for three days straight and making sure they didn’t see her cry. Other times it meant forcing herself to show up, to touch their hair, to remember they were real and not just another ghost from the woods.

Travis came back with a plate of scrambled eggs, handed it off without a word. He touched her shoulder as he passed. It lingered a second too long.

They weren’t together. Not really. But whatever had happened back in those trees tied them up tight. Tighter than they knew how to handle. A family, if you squinted and didn’t ask questions.

The kid picked at the food. Ate a few bites. It was enough.

“Thanks, Dad,” they said quietly.

Travis nodded, dropped onto the other side of the couch. “Anytime.”

Natalie watched them both, then leaned back, eyes flicking toward the ceiling.

She wasn’t good at this. But she wasn’t leaving, either. Not yet.