The storm had spent itself, but the forest refused to let go of its wetness. Dew hung thick on every leaf and braided itself into the thatch of the ruined safehouse; the air smelled of loam and soot and an iron tang that never fully left since the hollow. The morning light that found its way through fractured panes fell in pale, watery slashes and did nothing to warm the chill that had settled under the roof.
Inside, silence had weight. It pressed on the rafters and pooled in corners, broken only by the soft scrape of metal on wood where Owen fussed with whatever scraps of machinery still answered to him. The hearth coughed a last breath of smoke before going still; the embers were nothing but memory.
