The fog was thicker than usual, swallowing pine trees, rocky slopes, and the narrow path cutting through the Raton Creek valley. From afar, the howl of a wolf stretched long and sharp, as if it were singing along with the silence.
The wind carried the scent of wet soil mixed with burning wood, and the night air brought a cold that seeped deep into the bones.
I walked slowly down the slippery path, lowering my head so the rain wouldn't strike my face directly. The old leather jacket, stiff with age, clung to my body, holding back only a fraction of the chill crawling up my back. The worn rifle slung over my shoulder — my loyal companion through long silences — the only one that had stayed with me since the hard days long ago.
All around, the world seemed to sink. There was only the sound of rain beating against distant metal roofs, and my own footsteps. No stars, no moon. The night sky covered everything with a heavy gray curtain. In that stillness, every breath felt like a small burden that had to be hidden so no one would hear it.
I am Joe Bondurant — the people around Raton Creek know me as a hunter.
But that night, beneath the rain and fog, I was no one. Just a father coming home with a broken body and heart, trying to run from reality — trying to save something the world was slowly taking away from me.
A small wooden house appeared faintly at the end of the path, its lamp flickering in the wind. The fire from the hearth inside cast a warm reflection through the narrow window. When I opened the door, the scent of burning wood and herbal tea greeted me — warm, comforting, yet fragile. It felt like the last trace of warmth fighting to stay alive in the middle of a storm.
I stepped in quietly and closed the door behind me.
The large backpack on my back I took off and placed on the chair near the door.
The soaked leather jacket I hung on an old nail on the wall, dripping onto the cold wooden floor.
The old rifle I unshouldered and hung beside the fireplace.
For a moment, I just stood there, staring at the almost-dying embers, trying to remember what warmth felt like without fearing the loss that came after.
Clara, my wife, stood near the bed, squeezing a warm towel before placing it gently on our daughter's chest.
June lay still beneath the wool blanket covering her small body. Her breathing was short and uneven, like someone trying to steal air from a world that no longer gave her space.
Only after making sure my steps were silent did I pull a chair beside her bed and sit there.
> "How are you feeling today, sweetheart?" I asked in a voice that sounded more like a whisper.
June turned her head slowly. Her large eyes looked weary, yet there was still a faint light in them — like a small ember refusing to die.
> "It doesn't hurt too much, Dad. I just… get tired easily."
I smiled, though that smile felt false on my lips — a mask beginning to crack.
> "Then you need to rest a lot, alright? Promise?"
She nodded softly.
Clara said nothing, but her eyes — red from sleepless nights — couldn't hide what she held inside. I caught a brief tremor in her hands as she fixed June's pillow, as if her fear might fall apart along with the folds of the blanket.
The last doctor we met in the nearby town said June's spine was curving more, pressing against her lungs.
Without surgery, he said, our daughter might not make it to her ninth birthday.
I didn't know who to look at then — the doctor who couldn't help, or my wife trying to stay strong in front of me. His words still echoed even now, slipping between the sounds of rain and the crackle of burning wood.
Now I just sat there, holding June's small, cold fingers, staring at her little face as she slowly drifted to sleep. Every breath she took sounded like the ticking of a clock counting down the time we had left together — slow, certain, and cruel.
When I finally stood up, I went to the corner of the room and began cleaning the rifle.
Not because it needed cleaning — but because my hands needed something to do, so my mind wouldn't break apart.
Clara stood behind me for a while, watching, then turned her gaze back to our child. The rain outside grew heavier, drumming against the roof like a rhythm that reminded us how fragile this night's calm truly was.
> "How is she?" I asked, breaking the silence.
Clara answered without turning.
> "Her chest still hurts. The doctor said if she doesn't get the surgery soon…"
She stopped there. The sentence hung in the air like smoke that refused to fade.
I didn't ask again. I didn't need to. We both knew what it meant.
The surgery needed money. Money that would never be enough from selling deer meat and pelts I hunted during the winter. Raton Creek didn't give much — only silence and scars on my hands. Sometimes I felt this place held more grief than life itself.
Hours later, when the night grew darker and I was almost asleep in my chair, the sound of an engine came from outside.
Unusual. At this hour, no one passed this trail unless they were lost — or had a reason.
The car's headlights cut through the fog, casting light against our wooden walls. The sound of a car door opening, then slamming shut.
Three knocks broke the silence.
Clara straightened, her eyes wide with worry.
Her hand instinctively gripped June's shoulder, then she quickly stood and moved toward the small window. The car's light reflected on her face, making her look pale.
She stepped toward the bedroom, pulling the curtain and closing the door halfway, hiding behind the wooden frame, leaving only a small gap to watch through. From there, her eyes followed my every move, her breath held tight.
> "Who would come at this hour?" she whispered from behind the door, her voice nearly lost in the sound of rain.
I stood, grabbed the rifle from the corner, and opened the door slowly.
A man stood there — wearing a long black coat, a fedora hat covering part of his face. Rain dripped from the brim onto the ground, creating small sounds like pins falling onto the wooden floor.
> "Mr. Bondurant?" His voice was deep but calm.
> "Yes, that's me. Who are you?"
He nodded slightly.
> "My name is Harlow. I heard you're the hunter who knows every inch of Raton Forest."
> "You could say that," I replied carefully. "What brings you here this late at night?"
He glanced around, as if making sure no one was watching through the windows.
> "I need someone who knows the forest paths. My son disappeared there two nights ago."
I didn't answer immediately. Clara stood behind the bedroom door, half-hidden, listening in silence.
The sound of rain bouncing off the ground filled the room, pressing against us like a weight.
> "Why not ask the sheriff or the forest rangers?" I asked.
Harlow's gaze locked onto mine, dark and unreadable.
> "The sheriff's given up. They said there are no tracks to follow. But I can't just sit and do nothing."
He reached into his coat pocket and handed me a thick brown envelope.
I stared at it warily but still took it. Its weight gave me a bad feeling — like an unspoken warning.
> "This is an advance," he said quietly. "The rest when you find him."
"I know you need the money… for your daughter."
His words stopped there, like a knife sinking in without a sound.
I stared at him. He looked back without blinking, then turned and walked back to his car.
Within seconds, the sound of the engine faded into the rain, leaving behind an air heavier than before.
I stood there for a long time, staring at the darkness that swallowed the road.
Water dripped from the roof onto my boots, making a soft sound that, for some reason, felt like the ticking of time walking away from me.
The envelope was still in my hand, warm from my own grip.
Clara stepped out slowly from the room, standing behind me.
> "Who was that man?" she asked, her voice caught between fear and curiosity.
> "His name's Harlow. He said his son's missing in the forest."
She glanced at the envelope, then back at me.
> "Joe… don't rush into this. That man looked suspicious."
I didn't answer.
The rain outside reclaimed the house, swallowing our voices.
Between the falling drops and the dying fire in the hearth, I knew one thing: that night, something had changed — and nothing would ever be the same again.
Then, beyond the rain-streaked window, a shadow moved — too fast to be human.
My breath caught.
Something was watching me.
And I knew, that night, there was no safe place left.