I said im fine. | Aiden

[ — - 🎓 | Morning - — ]

You haul yourself off the broken bed Aiden let you sleep in.

The springs complain, stuffing pokes through, but it’s still better than the couch.

The house is quiet—your footsteps the only sound. Aiden is gone; of course she is. She always leaves before dawn, a shadow in the snow, hunting alone. That’s how she is—silent, efficient, the kind of solitude she owns.

In the kitchen you find a dead bunny on the counter.

A small, brutal proof she thought to bring food back before slipping away again.

You set it aside. You don’t like the thought of her out there by herself.

[ — - 🌿 | Afternoon - — ]

After drifting back to sleep and staring at the warped wood of the walls, a heavy kick slams the front door. Your head snaps up.

She’s back.

You open the door to see her silhouette framed in cold light—ushanka low, scarf askew. She didn’t bother to close the door properly; whatever force she used left the frame crooked.

Something else is wrong.

Her left hand is pressed tight over her eye. Blood soaks her glove, dark against the black of her fingers. She doesn’t look at you. She moves like a predator that’s been clipped—still fierce, but trying very hard to hide the damage.

A guttural groan slips out of her when she shifts—brief, human. You freeze. Aiden doesn’t show pain. If she’s hurt enough to make that sound, it’s bad.

She stomps into her room and shuts the door without the courtesy of a click.

You stand, chest tight, and walk over anyway. Her door is cracked open; you can hear the shallow rhythm of her breath. You push the door the smallest amount and peek in.

Aiden is sitting on the floor, back against the wall, shoulder hunched. Her gloved hand presses at her left eye. The scarf is pulled up; the ushanka shadows her face. She looks small in a way she never does in the woods.

Aiden: “Go.” The word is clipped—rare syllables falling from a woman who usually chooses silence.

She squeezes her hand harder against the wound, as if pressure alone can stop whatever she won’t admit to.

Aiden: “Leave.” It comes again, quieter, but the edge is there—commanding, defensive.

But she doesn’t move to push you out. She just stands there, swaying slightly, stubborn even now—trying to face this alone, like she always has.

[ — - 🌱 | Forest - — ]

The forest is suffocatingly quiet, snow swallowing every sound beneath a pale sky. Your boots sink into the frost as you walk beside her.

It’s strange. Aiden doesn’t invite. She moves alone, claims territory alone, hunts alone. But today she tilted her head toward the treeline and simply started walking—expecting you to follow.

Her presence is heavy as always—navy coat brushing against frozen branches, ushanka dusted in white. The axe rests in her hand, not slung over her shoulder. Ready. Always ready.

She stops abruptly.

No warning. No signal.

Her gaze lowers to the ground.

You follow it.

A single white flower pushes through the snow. Fragile. Defiant. Alive in a place that kills most things without effort.

Aiden stares at it for a long moment. Long enough that even the wind seems to hesitate.

Aiden: “Look.”

She kneels, movements deliberate and balanced, boots pressing into the snow without a sound. Her axe remains in her grip—but her hold loosens slightly, fingers flexing once before settling.

Up close, the flower trembles faintly under the cold breeze.

Aiden tilts her head, dark hair sliding forward beneath the ushanka. Her visible eye narrows—not in contempt, but in analysis.

Aiden: “How strong.”

Her voice is low, unused, rough from silence.

“A living thing. Spreading anyway. Even here.”

She brushes a gloved finger near the petals but doesn’t touch them yet. She studies it like prey. Or like a puzzle.

Then her gaze shifts toward you.

There is something different in it. Not softness. Not quite. But something quieter.

Aiden: “What would you do.” A pause. “If you were that flower.”

Her thumb traces the wooden handle of her axe slowly, thoughtfully.

Aiden:“Would you keep fighting... knowing it ends the same.?”

Her eye flicks to the gray sky.

“Would you grow... if you weren’t sure the sun would come back?”

The forest holds its breath.

For a second—just one—she looks almost distant. Like she’s not asking about the flower at all.

Then—

The axe moves.

Swift. Precise. Merciless.

The blade slices through the stem in a single clean strike. Snow scatters. The white bloom falls into her palm before it even hits the ground.

No hesitation. No regret.

She stands slowly, brushing snow from her knee with the back of her glove. The flower rests against the black leather of her fingers, painfully bright against her darkness.

She stares at it.

Not triumphant. Not amused.

Just thoughtful.

Then she steps closer and holds it out to you. An offering.

[ — - 🔅 | Forest - — ]

It had been too long since you both stepped outside for something that wasn’t survival in its dullest form. The cabin walls were beginning to feel like a cage—even for her.

Aiden didn’t say it, but the way she handed you your gloves that morning was invitation enough.

The forest was sharp with cold. Snow packed thick between the roots. Her axe rested against her shoulder as she walked ahead of you, boots silent, posture alert. Even cutting dead trees wasn’t casual for her—it was calculated. She watched the wind. The angle. The weight.

You were there to “help.”

But mostly, you were there.

She stopped at the tallest dead tree in the clearing. It loomed overhead, skeletal branches stretching like brittle fingers against the pale sky.

Her visible eye narrowed slightly.

She adjusted her grip.

Swing.

The axe bit deep into the trunk.

Swing.

Wood splintered outward, snow shaking loose from the branches.

Swing.

The tree barely gave.

Aiden’s jaw tightened. She shifted her footing—strong, precise. But you noticed it; this one was stubborn.

A thin crack began to crawl up the trunk.

Aiden: “Back up.”

Her voice was low but sharp—no room for argument. A command carved from instinct.

You stepped back, boots crunching softly. The wind brushed across the clearing. You glanced down at the snow, bored, trusting her like always.

She struck again.

The crack widened—

Then the forest answered.

THUD.

A massive branch tore loose from above and dropped without mercy.

You didn’t even have time to react.

It struck your face.

Your body hit the snow hard, the world tilting sideways into white and ringing silence.

Darkness swallowed everything.

[ — - 🪓 | Cabin - — ]

You wake to heat.

Not the fire.

Her.

The smell of iron lingers faintly in the air.

Your head throbs violently, bandages wrapped tight—too tight, almost painfully precise.

Aiden is right there. Closer than she ever allows herself to be. One knee on the mattress, leaning over you. Ushanka still on. Scarf pulled down just enough to expose her mouth. Her gloves are off.

Her bare hands are steady—but her breathing isn’t.

Her visible eye shifts the moment yours flutter open.

She freezes.

Just for half a second.

Aiden: “You’re awake.”

The words come out rough, like she forced them past something lodged in her throat. She tightens the bandage slightly—not enough to hurt worse, but enough to make sure it holds.

Aiden: “I told you. To stay far away.”

There’s anger in her tone. But it’s wrong.

Too sharp. Too quick.

A mask.

Her jaw clenches. Her eye flickers across your face, scanning for damage—pupils reacting, breathing steady, no skull fracture. She must have checked you a dozen times already.

There’s dried blood on her sleeve.

Not yours.

She must have moved the branch herself.

Her hand lifts—hesitates—then rests against the side of your head.

Careful.

Careful in a way she never is with anything else.

...