The next day, the moss was damp beneath Bruce's bare legs, and the rocks in his tiny hands were slick with sap and frustration. His arms trembled—not from exertion, but from hunger and cold—and his stomach had long since given up growling. He sat cross-legged on the floor of his cave, little more than a hollow in the side of the mountain, and smashed the rocks together with the patience of a madman and the focus of a monk. Every few minutes, he stopped to mutter to himself, low and serious, as if briefing a SWAT team.
"Angle's wrong... need more pressure. Maybe it's the temperature."
His fingers, blistered and covered in soot, gripped a flattish piece of quartz he'd been dragging around for the last two days. He didn't know if it was quartz—he just liked how it caught the light. The other rock was darker, rougher. He had no name for it, but it had the kind of attitude he appreciated.
He squinted through the grime coating his face, and muttered, "Alright, Stone A—time to show me what you're made of."
Then he brought the rocks together with a sharp clack.
Nothing. Again.
Bruce hissed between his teeth and shook his head. His hair, long and tangled now, fell over his face in pale streaks. He looked like a feral doll left out in the woods for a decade, except with more attitude and less plastic. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm—an old habit from a bigger, sweatier life.
This wasn't just survival anymore. This was routine. The daily ritual of a tiny, dirt-caked girl with the mind of a grown man and the soul of someone who didn't know how to quit. The cave smelled of damp earth and determination. In the corner, a small pile of failed "magic stones" sat stacked in a crooked pyramid. Some had chips. Others just looked like regular rocks. He kept them anyway. Not because they worked. But because they were part of the process.
Then it happened.
The next strike gave off a faint crackle. A spark. And then—
Light.
A slow, pulsing glow started to bleed from the surface of the quartz. It began soft, like the ember of a cigarette in the dark. Then it grew. Not blinding, but steady. Warm. Alive.
Bruce froze.
He blinked, leaned in close. His face hovered inches from the glowing stone, and his breath hitched in his throat. The glow lit up his filthy cheeks and caught in his wide, hollow eyes.
"Holy shit," he whispered. "I did it. I actually did it."
He held the stone like it was the Holy Grail, gently turning it in his palm. The light danced across the walls of the cave, revealing smudges of charcoal, leaf piles, and something that might've once been a sock. He laughed—an unhinged, delighted giggle that echoed in the stone chamber like something breaking loose.
"I have fucking magic!"
He leapt to his feet, the stone clutched to his chest, and spun in a circle, almost tripping over a log. His bare feet slapped against the cold rock floor, and he didn't care. A stick snapped under his heel and he didn't even flinch.
"Fire! No—better than fire! This is power. This is divine intervention. God's little flashlight!"
His voice cracked as he spoke, high and hoarse from dehydration, but his conviction was solid. He crouched low and placed the glowing stone beside a half-dead clump of moss and a sprouting fern he'd been trying to grow near the cave wall. He stared. And waited.
The fern twitched.
It wasn't much. Just a curl of a frond, a slight green shimmer along the edge—but it moved. Reacted.
Bruce's mouth dropped open. He whispered, reverently, "It works."
He didn't sleep that night. Instead, he sat there, wide-eyed, hugging his knees, whispering things to himself like, "Forget electricity. This is the new grid." and "You were right to train in gardening, Bruce. You magnificent bastard."
The next morning, he was already working on replicating it. New rocks. Different pressure. Temperature logs scratched into the cave wall using a sharpened stick and spit. No idea what he was doing, but total commitment. His notes were incoherent: "Rounder = better?" "Less wet = more glow?" "Think angry thoughts while hitting?"
He started talking to the rocks, giving them names. Motivation. Deadlift metaphors.
"You don't crack until I say so, Stone B. Come on—push through it."
For three days, he didn't leave the cave except to get water or dirt. He forgot about the direction he came from. Forgot about the mountain. Forgot about the explosion. Frank.
Frank...
The name poked at him, like a splinter he couldn't quite reach. He tried to picture his face—strong, square, dependable. But the image wouldn't form. Just a sense. Like he'd dreamed of someone important, but couldn't remember the dream.
"What did he look like?" Bruce muttered, confused. "He was there... wasn't he?"
He shook his head and rubbed his temples with muddy hands. The memories were fading—faces smearing like oil in water. Names, details, even his own... everything felt distant. Like someone else's story.
But the stones—those were here. Solid. Glowing.
They made things grow.
They gave him purpose.
They didn't ask questions.
He smiled to himself, a crooked, dirt-streaked grin, and stood up slowly. The cave glowed behind him, alive with a dozen warm lights and rows of small green things fighting to live. He stretched his arms overhead and rolled his shoulders, which cracked in protest.
"No excuses," he said to the wall. "We train. We build. We grow."
And somewhere deep inside him, the faint pulse of the Light Core beat softly, unnoticed.
Bruce picked up two more rocks.
Back to work.
The days that followed blurred together like a fever dream. Bruce couldn't say for sure how long he'd been working—was it two days? Four? A week? All he knew was that the sun came and went, and the cave stayed glowing. That was enough.
He had stopped counting time the moment he figured out how to make the second Light Stone.
The first had felt like luck. A fluke. Divine pity. But the second? That was skill. That was craftsmanship. That was, as he so eloquently muttered to himself at the time, "proof I'm still a goddamn man."
Now, the cave floor was scattered with half-finished stone rings and busted tools—mostly broken sticks, smashed river rocks, and a few handmade "workbenches" made from bark and flat stones. At the center of it all sat Bruce, shirtless as usual, his ragged tunic tied around his waist like a samurai belt. His skin was streaked with dirt and dried berry juice, and his feet were wrapped in moss bound with twine.
He crouched beside his makeshift garden—a lumpy mound of soil and compost scraped together from the woods—and slowly lowered the newest glowing stone into place above a wilting strawberry plant.
The reaction was immediate.
The leaves perked. The green deepened. The air itself felt just a little warmer, a little softer.
Bruce grunted in satisfaction. "That's right, baby. That's how we do it."
He sat back on his heels and admired the row of crude grow beds he'd carved into the cave's side chamber. So far, they held three fern species, a twisted berry vine, a moss slab, and what might have been a carrot before it died three times and resurrected under the stones.
He took in the sight like a proud father. Or a deranged survivalist. Or both.
"This is good," he said aloud to no one. "This is real progress."
He reached for a nearby stick and began scratching tally marks into the wall. Under them, crude symbols: plant growth speed, soil texture, light intensity. The system made sense to him, if no one else.
Above the marks, a phrase carved deep in the stone with a piece of bone:"WE GROW OR WE DIE."
Bruce nodded at it. Then gave a single approving grunt, the kind you make when you finish a heavy set at the gym or successfully tape your shoes together.
His stomach growled.
He ignored it.
Food had become a side quest. He still ate—berries, roots, a small, unfortunate rabbit—but only enough to stay functional. His real energy came from the work. From watching things grow. From knowing that no one had given this to him. That no one ever would.
As he moved through the cave, adjusting rocks and digging new beds, he muttered like a motivational coach losing his mind.
"Discipline. Focus. Sacrifice. You think food grows by crying? You think I got muscles whining on the couch? Hell no."
He squatted, did ten pushups on his knuckles, and then used a rock to scratch out "KNOW PAIN, KNOW GROWTH" beside the grow beds.
It wasn't just a motto. It was theology.
This was his church now. His gym. His bunker. His monastery.
He didn't even think about people anymore. The world outside? Didn't matter. Civilization? Overrated. Bruce had a goddamn moss farm powered by magic rocks and pure rage. What else could you need?
Sometimes he still felt something—like a memory brushing against the back of his mind. A voice. A name. A moment. But it always passed before it became clear.
He didn't fight it anymore.
"What was that guy's name?" he asked one night, sitting in front of his fireless firepit. "The one I was always with. The serious one. Tall. Grumpy."
He rubbed his chin, which had no facial hair now, of course.
"Frank?" he said, almost unsure. The name tasted familiar, but distant. Like something he'd read in a book.
He stared into the glow of Big Boy Blue—his strongest Light Stone—and watched the shadows flicker on the cave walls.
"Eh. Probably wasn't important."
He stood up, cracked his neck, and began his evening workout. Twenty squats. Twenty punches against a tree stump wrapped in vines. Ten laps around the interior cave wall, barefoot, while chanting:"Strength is earned. Comfort is death. Weakness is a choice."
Outside, the sun dipped below the mountain. Inside, Bruce—now more ghost than girl, more monk than man—danced in the warm glow of his stones, surrounded by a garden no one would ever see.
And for the first time in a long time, he felt at peace.
Sort of.
Maybe.
But just in case, he carved another message into the wall before bed:"IF LOST: KEEP TRAINING."
Then he curled up beside his plants, tucked his favorite Light Stone under his arm, and whispered to it like a teddy bear:
"Tomorrow we're lifting heavier rocks."
And in the cave, under the earth, where no one knew his name, the garden grew.
The glow from the Light Stones never really faded. It just dimmed a little when Bruce—Lili—slept. Not that sleep came easy anymore. Not with dreams like his.
They weren't nightmares. Not exactly. Just echoes. Shards.
There'd be flashes of fire. Screams. A man's voice yelling something. Steel and blood. Then a name—Frank?—floating just out of reach, like a balloon he kept trying to grab but couldn't.
When he jolted awake, his first instinct was to check on the plants.
The strawberries had grown another inch. That was good.
He tried to remember who the voice belonged to. The one in the dream.
He sat up slowly, brushing leaf scraps off his face, and stared into the wall.
"Frank."
He said it aloud.
The name hung there, bouncing off the stone like it didn't recognize the place.
"Frank… was that a dog?" He rubbed his temples. "No. A guy. A partner. Right?"
He blinked at the glowing rock beside his head. Big Boy Blue pulsed gently, like it was breathing. The light filled the cave like a soft breath. Everything looked warm. Safe.
He pushed himself to his feet and stepped barefoot onto the packed dirt floor, stretching like a soldier getting ready for patrol.
There were lines scratched into the far wall—dates? No, he'd stopped bothering to track days. Could've been weeks. Could've been months. Time didn't matter. Growth did.
He walked to the far end of the garden and checked his carrot bed. Still crooked. Still stubborn. He gave it a nod of respect. "You'll break through one day. Just like I did."
The cave was fuller now. The beds were organized. The Light Stones mounted in grooves like torches. There were sticks tied together like training dummies in one corner, and a heavy boulder in the other that he deadlifted every morning.
He moved like a ritual, checking each section of his sanctuary, whispering little affirmations:
"Keep pushing. You're not done."
"Pain is the path."
"No breaks unless something breaks."
But that name. Frank.
It came back again, not like a shout—but a whisper.
And this time, it hurt.
He stopped mid-step, staring at the cracked cave wall. "Who was he?"
The memory fought to surface. A shape. A shadow. The feel of someone running beside him. A voice yelling over gunfire. Hands pulling him to safety. A promise.
"You promised me something…"
His throat tightened. He didn't understand why. The memory was already slipping again.
"Was he family? A teammate? My—what? My…"
Nothing. Blank.
He rubbed his eyes furiously, smearing dirt across his face. "Get it together. You can't afford to start crying like a little girl."
Then he froze. Looked down at himself. Thin arms. Small hands. A ragged tunic stitched together from vines and squirrel fur.
"…Right."
He turned slowly toward the cave entrance. Outside, the forest was still. Mist hung in the trees. He hadn't left the mountain in—however long it had been. He'd meant to. He really had.
But then came the first Light Stone. Then the plants. Then the training.
He didn't remember where the town was. Or the road. Or how far he'd climbed to get here.
Had it been two days? Ten?
Had he come from the north or the south? He used to know directions. He used to know everything.
Now all he knew was how to make soil fertile and how many seconds it took to punch a rock before his knuckles bled.
He walked to the edge of the cave and stood there in silence, looking out over the treetops. The air was crisp. Clean. In the distance, the sun was just beginning to rise—painting the ridgeline in orange and gold.
He squinted.
A flicker of smoke.
Far away. A chimney.
Someone lived out there.
Maybe people. Maybe a town.
He watched it for a long time. Didn't move.
Then quietly whispered, "I should go."
But his feet didn't move.
Not yet.
Instead, he went back into the cave, sat beside his stone collection, and picked up a small one he hadn't named yet.
He held it in his palm, stared at the faint glow, and muttered, "You ever forget who you were, little guy?"
The stone said nothing.
Bruce—or whoever he was now—placed it gently beside a new sprouting mushroom and leaned back against the wall.
One more night. Then maybe he'd go.
Maybe.
He closed his eyes.
The cave pulsed.
And the face of the man he once called his best friend drifted further into shadow.
The cave was growing.
Not in size—it was still the same cramped, mossy crack in the mountain with a low ceiling and a tendency to drip cold water directly onto Bruce's forehead during his best naps—but something about it felt... bigger. Fuller. Alive.
He didn't notice it at first. Not consciously. It began with the plants. The little moss beds he'd carefully laid between his Light Stones were spreading, not just within their designated plots, but outward—up the stone walls, across the floor, even toward the entrance. Green tendrils slithered through cracks in the rock, and new mushrooms sprouted in corners Bruce hadn't planted anything.
At first, he chalked it up to skill.
"Of course it's growing," he muttered proudly while tying together another stick trellis. "I'm a goddamn gardening genius."
Then the animals came.
Not in hordes, not dramatically—but subtly. A squirrel started sleeping just outside the cave's mouth. Then there was the fox that passed by every evening and left without pissing on anything. Even a raccoon stopped stealing his berries and started leaving small stones in their place.
Bruce took it as tribute.
"That's right," he said, pointing to the raccoon from across the clearing. "You know who runs this forest now."
He sat on a rock throne—really just a chunk of granite he'd dragged in from outside and smoothed out with a flat stone—and watched as butterflies flitted in and out of the cave like it was a sacred grove.
At night, when all the stones were glowing and the cave pulsed like the inside of a living heart, Bruce would sit cross-legged at the center, palms up, breathing deep, pretending he was meditating.
He called it "Core Training."
"Discipline," he whispered, eyes closed, chest rising and falling. "That's how you grow a dick. Slowly. Through adversity."
He nodded to himself, then peeked one eye open toward a sapling near the back wall.
"Just like Little Jerry over there. Pushing through hard rock like a beast."
He gave the tree a thumbs-up.
But while his garden bloomed and the cave glowed, something else began to shift—something Bruce didn't want to notice.
His training log had changed.
Where once he'd written things like "10 boulder curls" and "15 squats holding root ball," now there were notes like:
Try heart-shaped rock path?
Move moss wall closer to vine curtain—looks nicer.
Need more blue flowers—balance the red ones.
He blamed it on symmetry. "Presentation matters," he said, hauling pebbles into a spiral formation. "Like a battlefield. You gotta own the terrain."
One afternoon, he caught himself plaiting strands of dry grass together into a braid.
He stopped. Stared at it.
And very slowly tossed it behind a rock like it had never happened.
Later, he caught himself thinking, That mushroom looks kinda cute. Then immediately dropped to the floor and did fifty pushups while shouting, "You're a man! You're just in compact mode! This is tactical femininity!"
The cave listened, said nothing.
Outside, the forest around the cave had begun to change. Grass near the cave mouth was richer, thicker. The trees closest to the entrance had straighter trunks, healthier bark. Insects buzzed in gentler rhythms. Birds nested in lower branches, unafraid.
From high above, the cave no longer looked like a random hole in the rock.
It looked like a heartbeat in the side of the mountain.
Bruce didn't notice.
He was too busy tying moss into the shape of a leaf and trying to figure out why it made him feel satisfied in a way he didn't want to talk about.
He grunted as he adjusted a rock near the fern bed.
"Functional. Not pretty. It's just... efficient symmetry."
He scratched "Functional symmetry = tactical advantage" into his wall journal. Then added a flower doodle next to it.
He didn't notice that either.
Bruce was balancing a mushroom on the tip of a stick and talking to it like it owed him money.
"You think I'm soft? Just 'cause I cried when I slipped on moss doesn't mean I'm weak. That was tactical pain release."
The mushroom didn't reply, which Bruce took as respect.
He stood shirtless, covered in dirt, a bundle of leaves tied around his waist like a diaper from hell. His hair was a tangled mess that fell over his shoulders in waves of pale blonde, twigs poking out like battle trophies. He'd tied it back with vine loops in what he called a "combat braid" but looked more like a floral hairband.
He crouched, stabbed the mushroom into the soil, and stepped back proudly.
"Perfect formation. You hold the line now."
Then he turned to adjust the rocks on his latest Light Stone pedestal. The glow flickered warmly. It bathed the inside of the cave in that now-familiar golden hue—a soft, womb-like safety that he had come to trust more than memory.
He didn't think about the town anymore.
He didn't think about where he came from.
Frank was a shadow. A voice that no longer had a face. And his old name? That was still Bruce. Always had been. What else would it be?
But something was changing.
It started with a smell.
Smoke. Not fire smoke. Chimney smoke.
Bruce froze mid-stretch, one leg pulled behind his back in a shaky quad stretch. He sniffed. Then again. He turned toward the cave entrance, where golden light leaked onto the forest floor.
Smoke.
He scrambled up the rocks outside and climbed to his usual perch—"The Lookout Rock," where he sometimes trained by squatting until he passed out.
He squinted through the trees, adjusting his braid with one hand.
There it was. In the far distance. A tiny column of smoke rising above the hills.
A house.
His breath caught.
Someone lived there.
His first instinct was to hide. He ducked back behind the boulder, heart pounding like a squirrel trapped in a shoebox. People meant danger. People meant questions. Authority. Teachers. Hospitals. Scissors near your head.
He hissed and held the sides of his face. "Don't go. Stay in the cave. Caves are safe. Caves don't judge your squat form."
But curiosity gnawed at him like a raccoon on old leather.
He peeked again.
It wasn't just a chimney. There were figures—tiny dots. Movement.
Kids.
Bruce lowered himself slowly onto his stomach, watching through a crack between the rocks. He felt ridiculous—a muddy, half-starved little girl with a stick spear, spying on a wealthy family estate like she was planning an invasion.
But he couldn't stop watching.
The house was massive. Wood and stone and old-world charm. Too elegant for this part of Vermont unless you were someone important.
The name on the mailbox, barely visible from the ridge: Redfield.
Something stirred inside him.
He didn't know why that name hit him the way it did. He didn't know that the boy playing in the backyard was Chad. He didn't know that the reason his stomach twisted when he saw that golden-haired kid climbing a rope was because some part of him—buried deep beneath the garden-building and mushroom-training and motivational muttering—recognized him.
All Bruce knew was that the boy moved differently than the others.
Purposeful. Quiet. Like a soldier in recess.
He narrowed his eyes. "That one's trained."
Bruce watched him for hours.
When the sun began to dip, the boy went inside. The lights came on. The chimney smoked again.
Bruce stayed on the ridge until nightfall.
He didn't eat. He didn't stretch. He just watched.
He didn't understand why his chest felt heavy. Why the sight of that boy made him feel… smaller.
Weaker.
Left behind.
"I'm training too," Bruce muttered into the dark. "I'm not slacking. I'm building. I have magic rocks."
He looked back toward the cave, glowing faintly behind him. The garden, the drawings, the soft soil beds. It had all felt like a fortress.
Now, somehow, it felt like a hiding place.
The wind rustled the leaves, and Bruce shivered.
"I'll get stronger," he whispered, voice shaking. "I'll grow faster. I'll… I'll catch up."
He didn't know who he was talking to.
Maybe the boy.
Maybe the stars.
Maybe the part of himself he was afraid he'd lost.
Then, slowly, Bruce crawled back toward the cave, glancing over his shoulder one last time.
The house was still there.
The chimney still smoked.
And in the back of his mind, something he hadn't thought about in a long time stirred like embers under ash:
"I need to see him again."
The flower was perfect.
Delicate, pink-and-white petals folded outward in a spiral. The stem thick, firm, and glowing faintly from where it had sprouted beneath one of the stronger Light Stones. Bruce had never grown anything like it—not even in his old backyard garden before the raid. It didn't just look beautiful—it looked important. Like something you'd see in a movie before the music swells and a miracle happens.
He stared at it for almost an hour before he decided what to do.
"Good neighbors," he muttered, standing in the middle of his garden with the flower held gently in both hands, "they're supposed to say hello. That's what normal people do."
He glanced toward the cave entrance. The sun was gone now. The sky a deep purple, just past dusk. A few stars blinked above the tree line. Crickets hummed. Somewhere nearby, a raccoon tripped over a pile of twigs Bruce had called his "sandbag dummy."
He didn't flinch.
Tonight wasn't about training.
Tonight was about manners.
He'd seen the house from the ridge. Big place. Fancy. It had a chimney and kids and lights that worked. And if those were his neighbors, then Bruce—though currently barefoot, shirtless, and covered in dirt—had decided to be neighborly.
Besides, he'd been proud of this flower. He wanted someone to see it. Someone other than a squirrel or a mushroom.
And so, he set out.
The journey down the mountain was quiet. He walked slow, one hand cradling the flower, the other swinging like he was on patrol. His moss-wrapped feet made almost no sound, and his long pale hair bounced with each step, tied back with vine. The dress he wore barely hung on his frame now. Too short, too torn. He'd added patches of stitched bark and clover leaves for modesty.
By the time he reached the road at the base of the estate, the stars were bright, and a fog had crept across the field. The Redfield mansion stood beyond a grove of trees, glowing like something out of a forgotten dream. He crept up the stone path, holding the flower like a priceless artifact.
He didn't remember Chad. Didn't know that boy lived here. Didn't know the name "Redfield" meant anything at all. He just knew the house looked warm. And that people lived inside.
And that maybe, if he brought something beautiful... they'd smile.
He stepped up to the front door on shaking legs. He was exhausted. He hadn't eaten a full meal in two days, and the flower was heavier than it should've been. But he stood straight. Proud.
He raised his hand.
And knocked.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Then he waited.
No idea how long you were supposed to wait after knocking.
He considered leaving the flower and running. But before he could decide, the door creaked open.
Light spilled out into the night. Warm, yellow, and full of shadow.
In the doorway stood a man. Tall. Broad. Jaw like a chisel, hair dark and swept back. He wore slacks and a dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar. His sleeves were rolled up, and a tumbler of something brown glinted in his hand.
He blinked at the child in front of him.
Then scowled.
Bruce, beaming, stepped forward and raised the flower with both hands like a sacred offering. "Hi," he said, voice small but steady. "I live near here. I made this. It's for you."
The man didn't smile.
He didn't kneel.
He didn't even blink.
Instead, his eyes scanned Bruce from head to toe—the tangled hair, the filthy feet, the shredded dress, the bruises, the sticklike arms, and finally, the flower.
And something cold hardened behind his gaze.
"You from town?" the man asked.
Bruce shook his head. "No, I'm from the woods."
"…The woods," the man repeated, slowly.
Bruce nodded.
The man looked past him. Toward the tree line. Toward the dark.
He sighed. Long and tired. Then downed the rest of his drink in one swallow.
"Listen," he said, stepping forward, voice low and sharp. "I don't know what kind of scam this is. Or if your parents are watching from the bushes. But I've already got one stray in my house. I don't need another."
Bruce's smile faltered. "I'm not a stray. I'm Bruce."
The man raised his hand—not fast. Not hard. Just enough.
And with the back of it, he batted the flower away.
It flew into the yard, bounced once, and landed in the mud.
Bruce stared at it.
Then stared at the man.
"I just wanted to be a good neighbor," he whispered.
The man took a step forward, towering above him. "Good neighbors don't sneak around like rats. Get off my porch. Now."
Bruce didn't move.
So the man did.
With one quick motion, he shoved Bruce off the stoop.
The child flew backward, hit the ground hard, and rolled. He grunted, then gasped, pain blooming across his ribs and spine.
The door slammed shut.
Silence returned.
The flower lay crushed beside him, half-buried in the mud.
He didn't cry.
Didn't speak.
He just sat there for a long time, staring at the house, wondering what he'd done wrong.
Then, slowly, he pulled himself to his feet.
Turned.
And limped back toward the woods.
Behind him, the porch light flickered off.
In front of him, the trees whispered.
And somewhere, not far away, the cave waited—glowing faintly in the dark.