I learned the price of waiting before I learned its benefit.
The scrape outside lasted three minutes. I counted them by breath, not because it helped, but because numbers kept my hands from shaking. The sound moved slow, deliberate, like something heavy being dragged by someone who wasn't in a hurry. It circled the house once. Maybe twice. I couldn't tell. Snow flattened sound, bent it, made distance meaningless.
Then it stopped.
I stayed where I was—back against the wall, knees pulled up, knife resting uselessly in my lap. The fire had gone out hours ago. I didn't dare relight it. Smoke was a signal. Light was a promise I couldn't afford to make.
My feet went numb first. Then my calves. I shifted my weight and felt pins drive into my skin, sharp enough to make my vision blur. I bit down hard on my sleeve and waited for the feeling to come back. It didn't. It never came back the same way once it left.
Morning didn't bring relief. It brought clarity.
The snow outside my window was disturbed.
Not footprints. Not exactly. More like dents—shallow, uneven impressions pressed into the surface and half-filled again by drifting flakes. A path that didn't want to be a path. Whatever had circled the house hadn't walked the way people did.
I didn't let myself think about that.
Staying put meant burning calories to stay warm. Moving meant risking everything else. I weighed the math and didn't like either answer. Hunger sharpened the equation, stripped it down to the ugly truth beneath.
If I stayed, something would come back.
If I left, something might follow.
I packed anyway.
The act of preparing steadied me. Rope coiled tight. Knife checked. Crowbar strapped to my pack like a bad idea I wasn't ready to give up. I hesitated over the peaches, then tucked the can into my coat. Saving food for later was a luxury. Later wasn't guaranteed.
I cracked the door just enough to listen.
Nothing.
The silence pressed in, thick and watchful. I stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind me without locking it. I didn't plan on coming back.
The cold wrapped around me immediately, aggressive and intimate. It found the seams in my clothes, slid down my spine, settled into the hollow at the base of my throat. I kept moving. Movement made heat. Heat meant life.
I didn't head for the store again. Curiosity had already cost me enough. Instead, I followed the river path east, where the snow was thinner and the wind louder. Sound there belonged to the world again, not to me.
That's where I saw the tracks.
They cut across the path at an angle, shallow impressions pressed too evenly into the snow. Not feet. Not hands. They didn't drag. They paced. A long stride, measured, purposeful. I crouched and traced one with my glove, heart hammering.
It had changed direction.
Deliberately.
Something about that sat wrong in my chest. The cold could explain a lot. Starvation too. But this—this felt like intent.
I stood and moved on.
I didn't get far before I heard breathing.
Not close. Not loud. Just present. A soft, wet pull of air, timed too regularly to be wind. I stopped instantly, the sound of my own breath roaring in my ears. I held it, lungs burning, and listened again.
There it was.
Behind me.
I didn't turn.
Turning was a commitment.
I walked faster instead, boots crunching, pulse spiking. The breathing kept pace. Not gaining. Not falling back. Just there. Patient. Like it knew something I didn't.
My foot slipped on ice, and I went down hard, the impact knocking the air from my chest in a sharp, painful burst. The breathing stopped.
I scrambled upright, heart trying to claw its way out of my ribs, and spun around with the crowbar raised.
Nothing.
The path was empty. Snow drifting lazily, already erasing my fall. No movement. No shape. No proof I hadn't imagined the whole thing.
I laughed once, short and ugly.
That was worse.
I didn't slow down after that. I couldn't. Every step felt like a negotiation with something I couldn't see. My legs burned, muscles screaming, but the idea of stopping felt heavier than exhaustion.
By the time I reached the highway overpass, my vision had narrowed to a tunnel. I ducked beneath the concrete, pressing myself into shadow, chest heaving. I counted again—heartbeats this time—until the shaking eased.
That's when I noticed the bodies.
Three of them, huddled beneath the overpass like they'd tried to share warmth at the end. Frozen solid. No wounds. No signs of a fight. Just people who'd waited together until waiting wasn't enough.
One of them was upright, back against the concrete pillar, chin resting on his chest.
Standing would have been easier to understand.
I backed away slowly, dread settling deep and heavy in my gut. Waiting had killed them. Staying still had given the cold time to finish its work.
And something else time to learn.
I understood it then, finally and completely:
Stillness wasn't safety anymore.It was an invitation.
I left the overpass without looking back, legs screaming, breath tearing at my throat. Whatever was out there could wait longer than I could.
I wasn't going to give it the chance.