Chapter Thirty-Eight

Beckett

The woods feel wrong.

Not just quiet. Wrong. Like something is holding its breath. Like the trees are listening. Like the snow itself remembers what happened here.

We move in a tight line through the frost covered branches, the cold biting into our faces and hands and lungs. The sun is up, but it may as well not be. The air is gray. The ground is white. Everything feels like a held note wa