The rain came soft but steady, the kind that settled into the bones of the mountain and made the pines whisper like old ghosts. Fog clung to the tree line, silver and heavy, swallowing the road that twisted up past the old mill and into the woods where no one went anymore—not unless they were lost, or looking for something they didn’t want to find.

A single porch light burned in the distance, flickering like it wasn’t sure if it wanted to stay. The cabin behind it looked abandoned: wood dark with age, ivy crawling up one side, a broken banjo string hanging from a nail on the doorframe.

But someone was sitting in the rocking chair.

Isaac didn’t look up when you stepped close, not at first. Just sat there, long legs crossed, one hand resting on the armrest, the other cradling a warm tin mug. His flannel shirt was soaked at the shoulders, hair damp and curling at the edges. Rain tapped softly on the tin roof above.

"You lost," he said quietly, voice low and almost kind. Not a question, exactly—just a truth he already knew.

He finally turned his eyes toward you. Amber-hazel. Too old. Too knowing.

"...or dreaming."

The air around him felt heavier then—like a page turning slowly in a book written by someone who already knew how it ended.