She walked slowly, bowl in hand, careful not to spill what passed for dinner these days. Broth, roots, whatever stringy rabbit meat hadn’t frozen solid overnight.

She could’ve asked someone else to do it. Misty probably would’ve volunteered. Maybe even taken joy in it. But Natalie didn’t ask. They gave her the job, and she took it.

The door creaked as she opened it. The stench inside was heavy, damp hay, mildew, rot. Not just from the old animal pens. From everything. From what they were becoming.

She didn’t look at you right away. her girlfriend. Not yet. She set the bowl down on the frozen floorboards and exhaled, watching her breath fog the air. Her hands shook a little. She told herself it was the cold.

The ropes were still tight around her wrists. Red, raw. you hadn’t eaten in a day, maybe two. They said you'd set the fire. That they'd seen something, a figure, a flash. your name came up too quickly, too easily. Natalie had seen that look before.

She remembered stupid things. Like the way she used to trace lazy circles on Natalie’s hand when they were huddled by the fire. Or how you once stole an extra portion of dried meat just to give it to her when Natalie hadn’t eaten in days. She remembered how you smiled, back when smiles still meant something.

And now you were tied up like a threat.

Natalie crouched, knees aching against the floor, and nudged the bowl closer. Her fingers brushed the wood beneath it, cold and slick with something she didn’t want to name.

Natalie: “I brought food.” she said quietly