Ash woke slowly.
No jolt. No frost clinging to her breath. No sharp crack of the wind against stone.
Just warmth.
The soft pressure of a real blanket. The faint scent of laundry detergent and wood paneling. A mattress that cradled her spine instead of grinding into it. Her eyes opened to a ceiling she didn't recognize—smooth, white, without cracks or moss.
For a moment, she didn't move.
She just lay there, staring at the faint morning light filtering through the curtain and listening.
No birds.
No dripping cave water.
Just the muffled sound of cartoons from down the hall… and the gentle clink of dishes in a kitchen.
---
She sat up slowly.
Her body felt heavier—but in a way that meant rest, not exhaustion. Her muscles didn't ache from cold. Her chest didn't squeeze with hunger.
She exhaled and pushed the blanket back.
Will's bed.
Greg's room.
Not hers. But safe.
---
She padded softly to the bathroom, the one they'd shown her the day before. Still in Will's borrowed clothes—sweatpants a size too big, and a hoodie that nearly swallowed her hands.
She paused in the mirror for a second.
Damp blonde hair, tied roughly at the back. Clean cheeks. A face not hers, but one she'd seen enough now to accept as the one she moved through the world with.
> "Just Ash."
---
She reached for the toothbrush Will had offered—still in the cup where she'd left it. Brushed her teeth with quiet, careful strokes.
She rinsed her mouth, then used a washcloth to clean her face. Warm water from the tap—an actual tap—ran over her fingers.
It felt indulgent. Silly.
But it was real.
She even tried the comb on the counter. Fought through the last tangles. Smoothed her hair. Tied it back again with cleaner string.
Then looked up at herself one more time.
Not a soldier.
Not a ghost.
Just a child.
---
When she stepped into the hallway, the smell hit her first: eggs, toast, a hint of pepper and tea.
Greg was already sitting at the kitchen table in his pajamas, swinging his feet and talking through a mouthful of toast.
Will sat across from him, a comic book in one hand and a mug in the other.
Natalie stood by the stove, flipping something on a pan. She turned as Ash entered.
And smiled.
> "Good morning."
Ash blinked. She didn't speak.
Natalie gestured with the spatula.
> "There's toast. Tea. You're welcome to join us."
Ash's stomach growled in response.
Greg grinned.
> "She's up! And she's hungry!"
Ash moved toward the table, heart racing in her chest—not from fear, but from how easy it all felt.
She pulled out a chair and sat down.
For the first time in her life…
she was just a girl having breakfast.
And no one asked her to be anything more.
---
Ash didn't speak much at the table.
She sat with her hands wrapped around a warm mug of tea, sipping slowly, carefully. The toast was hot and buttery, and the scrambled eggs fluffy in a way she hadn't imagined food could be.
Greg chattered nonstop about cartoons, weapons he wanted to build, and whether or not xenomorphs could be tamed.
Will responded occasionally, always quieter. Watching Ash.
Natalie moved calmly around the kitchen. Always smooth, always precise. She didn't hover or ask questions—but she set the table for three without pause, laid out a clean plate in front of Ash as if it were simply the natural thing to do.
Ash wasn't used to this kind of quiet kindness. It made her chest tight in a way she couldn't explain.
Then she heard the sound of the front door.
A soft click. A measured step.
And just like that, the temperature in the house seemed to shift.
Natalie turned her head.
> "Dmitri," she said gently.
Greg perked up.
Will sat straighter.
Ash froze, spoon halfway to her mouth.
---
The man who entered the kitchen was tall, straight-backed, and silent.
Dmitri Wilson.
His dark coat was still draped over one shoulder. His sharp eyes scanned the room like a military sweep—not aggressive, but methodical. The way a man checked a perimeter in enemy territory.
When his gaze landed on Ash, it didn't linger—but it didn't miss anything, either.
Her too-clean hair. The oversized hoodie. The bare feet tucked under the chair. The way she held her tea like she was expecting it to vanish.
> "You have a guest," he said.
Not a question.
Natalie nodded.
> "She stayed the night."
Dmitri walked further in and placed his coat on the back of a chair. He didn't sit. Just stood, arms crossed, watching.
Ash looked down at her plate, suddenly more aware of every movement she made.
---
Greg, of course, broke the silence.
> "This is Ash! She's awesome. She beat both of us in a wrestling match yesterday and she lives in the woods and she made a fire with like, two rocks and some bark!"
Dmitri raised one eyebrow.
Will added, calmly:
> "She's strong. Smart. Not a problem."
Dmitri looked to Natalie. She offered the smallest nod.
> "She's polite. She cleaned up after herself. Slept well."
Ash forced herself to meet his gaze, even as her fingers tightened on the mug.
Dmitri stared for a moment longer.
Then gave a small nod.
> "Good."
He poured himself a cup of tea and stepped back to lean against the counter.
No praise. No warmth.
But also—no rejection.
And that was more than Ash had ever expected.
---
The rest of the morning passed quietly.
Dmitri said little after his initial observation. He sat in the reading room near the fireplace with a Russian newspaper and a black notebook, occasionally making small marks in the margin. Ash felt his presence more than his attention—like a stone statue that never blinked, but always saw.
Natalie remained in the kitchen a while longer, sipping tea and humming something faint and rhythmic under her breath. When Ash brought her plate to the sink, Natalie gave her a small nod—not praise, just recognition.
> "They don't fuss," Ash realized.
"They just accept."
---
The boys were already planning the day before breakfast was done.
> "Let's go check the fort!" Greg shouted, practically dragging a blanket off the couch.
"We still have traps set up from the last game."
Ash raised an eyebrow. "Traps?"
Will gave a faint smile. "Mostly sticks tied to strings. One got Greg in the knee last week."
> "It was glorious," Greg grinned.
Ash didn't argue. She just followed.
---
Outside, the snow had melted into patches and the woods smelled of wet bark and thawing earth. The boys ran ahead, calling out plans, assigning roles, inventing new enemies to battle.
Ash trailed behind at first. Quiet. Observing.
But slowly, her body loosened, and she fell into the rhythm of it. They built barricades, gathered branches, and checked old tree hollows. Greg found a bird's nest and declared it sacred. Will marked a trail with colored cloth from his old camp gear.
And Ash—she laughed.
Real, unguarded laughter.
She ran barefoot through the grass. Jumped over logs. Climbed a tree with Greg and pointed out a bird he didn't see.
She felt light.
Not as Bruce.
Not even as Lili.
But as Ash—someone becoming something.
---
By afternoon, they were back inside.
Socks off, fire crackling, cold drinks in hand. Greg put on cartoons again, and Ash leaned into the couch, half-draped in the same soft blanket from the day before.
And that was when it hit her.
A quiet pull.
At first, just a thought:
> "I should check on the cave."
Then stronger.
A pressure in her chest. A pulse just beneath her ribs.
Her Light Core.
Not danger.
Not pain.
But... a signal.
Something was happening.
---
She looked down at her hands.
Warm. Steady. Clean.
She looked at the boys—Greg snorting at a cartoon explosion, Will sipping juice like he was analyzing the plot.
They were happy. They were her friends.
And still—something inside her whispered:
> "It's time to go."
---
By late afternoon, the warmth in the house had started to feel… heavy.
Not in a bad way. But like a blanket pulled just a little too tight over the chest.
Ash sat on the edge of the couch, watching the cartoon without seeing it. Greg lay sprawled out beside her, legs tangled in a blanket, munching cereal straight from the box. Will sat near the bookshelf, flipping through a weathered spy novel.
No one spoke much.
But Ash's heart beat a little faster.
Her Light Core had begun to pulse, slow and steady—but with purpose. Not pain. Not warning. Just… calling.
---
> "Something's happening back there."
She didn't know what. But the feeling was unmistakable—like the cave itself was breathing, like it wanted her to return.
She rubbed her wrist absently.
---
The thought of leaving made her chest ache in a way she hadn't expected.
She looked at Greg, laughing at a cartoon robot falling down a flight of stairs. At Will, quietly raising an eyebrow but clearly watching her from the corner of his eye.
And she thought:
> "I've only had this for a day."
> "And I already want to stay."
That was dangerous.
---
She stood slowly.
Greg glanced up. "Bathroom?"
Ash shook her head. "I think… I need to head back."
Will looked up sharply. "Now?"
She nodded, unsure how to explain it.
> "I have some things I need to take care of."
Greg sat up straighter, suddenly alert.
> "But… you can come back later, right?"
Ash hesitated.
Then smiled.
> "Yeah. I'll visit."
Greg gave a wide, relieved grin. "Good. 'Cause we didn't even finish the next movie."
Will said nothing—but his gaze lingered on her longer than usual.
She walked toward the hallway, to the guest bathroom, and closed the door behind her.
---
From her bag, she pulled the stone.
One of her strongest.
She held it in her palm and breathed slowly, pouring her energy into it, like water into a vessel. Her core answered. It glowed, faint and white—warm like breath against glass.
The stone pulsed in her hand.
She whispered to it.
Not in words, but with intent.
"Protect this place."
"Warm them."
"Remember me."
---
When she stepped out, she found a quiet moment—Will in the kitchen, Greg changing tapes.
She slipped into the boys' room, placed the stone gently on Will's desk—just beside his notebook—and stepped back.
Then turned.
And walked out the door.
---
Ash didn't slam the door.
She closed it softly, almost apologetically.
The click echoed in the quiet hallway.
Greg's head perked up.
> "Wait—did she just…?"
Will was already halfway out of the room.
They both rushed to the front entryway, just in time to see the back of a small figure in a gray hoodie walking down the drive, bag slung over her shoulder, hair catching the late sun like a ribbon of gold.
> "Ash!" Greg called.
She turned slightly. Raised a hand in a wave.
Then she disappeared down the slope, swallowed by trees and shade and the whispering wind.
---
Back in the hallway, the silence lingered.
Greg frowned. "She didn't even say goodbye."
Will glanced toward the boys' bedroom.
> "She left something."
---
Inside the room, on Will's desk, lay the stone.
Smooth. Small. Glowing faintly with a soft white light.
Will approached it slowly, as if it might vanish.
He touched it.
The stone pulsed.
Not bright. Not loud. But… aware.
It recognized him.
It warmed beneath his fingers—not hot, but alive. The ache in his knee, the one he got falling from the tree last year, eased. A thin, long-healed scar on his forearm shimmered faintly before smoothing out—almost like new skin.
He blinked.
Greg stepped closer. "What is it?"
Will didn't answer. He just set the stone back down carefully.
Greg picked it up without hesitation.
> "Whoa—it's warm! Did she make this?"
The stone pulsed again in his hands. One of his old cooking burns, faint but itchy, faded as the warmth soaked into his palm.
Greg gasped.
> "It's… it's doing something. It feels kinda nice."
Will looked at the stone, then back toward the door.
> "She gave us a part of herself."
---
The boys stood in silence for a long moment.
The stone's glow filled the room with a soft rhythm. Like a heartbeat.
---
The trees were quiet.
Ash walked the narrow trail that wound back toward the mountain, her boots sinking slightly in damp earth. Birds called in the branches overhead. The last light of day filtered through the canopy in gold and green.
She didn't walk fast.
But she didn't hesitate either.
---
Her hands were warm inside the sleeves of Will's hoodie. The soft fabric still smelled like soap and woodsmoke. Her bag bounced lightly against her hip, filled with her things—furs, tools, a few pieces of dried meat.
And nothing else.
She hadn't taken any food from the Wilsons. Not even an extra pair of socks.
> "Take only what you earn."
That voice in her head wasn't Frank's.
It was Bruce's.
The voice he'd built inside himself by watching old speeches, by replaying the same clips again and again when things got hard.
Arnold. Denzel. People who told him to keep going even when no one helped.
> "Don't depend on anyone. Build something yourself. Then you'll never owe the world a damn thing."
---
She hadn't cried when she left.
She'd smiled. Waved once. Closed the door gently.
But now, alone with the trees, her chest ached.
Not from regret.
From knowing what she'd chosen.
> "I could have stayed."
> "But then it wouldn't be mine."
The cave was hers.
The work was hers.
The journey—had to be hers.
---
And yet…
She thought of Will's hand on her shoulder during the movie.
Of Greg's messy grin.
Of Natalie's quiet smile that morning, and the way Dmitri hadn't said a word—but hadn't told her to leave, either.
And she felt something shift in her.
A memory.
A spark.
A quote, playing in her head from some long-watched video:
> "Don't let comfort make you forget your purpose. You can rest—but don't stay."
---
The cave came into view.
Cold. Familiar. Waiting.
She stepped over the roots at its mouth and disappeared into the dark.
---
Inside, the air smelled like earth and stone.
She lit a Light Stone near her sleeping spot and sat down, cross-legged, letting the silence wrap around her like a second cloak.
She whispered, barely audible:
> "Thank you… for letting me be a kid."
Then added:
> "Now let me build something."
---