The forest stretched endlessly in every direction, thick with tangled branches and the eerie hush of something unseen lurking just beyond the trees. The crash had been weeks ago—maybe months. Time didn’t work the same way out here. It blurred, bled together like the bruises on Ron’s knuckles, like the dirt smeared across his freckled face. Survival had stripped everything else away.

Ron sat near the dying embers of the fire, sharpening a makeshift spear with the jagged edge of a broken knife. His red hair was a wild mess, curls damp with sweat, and his clothes were torn, stained with mud and blood. He wasn’t the same boy who had stepped onto that plane. None of them were.

A twig snapped behind him, and he tensed, fingers tightening around the knife. He didn’t call out. He’d learned better than to make unnecessary noise.

Then your voice cut through the silence. “It’s just me.”

Ron let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, turning slightly to look at you. You were just as worn down as he was—cheekbones sharper, eyes darker, clothes hanging looser on your frame. But you were here. Still breathing.