Ash moved carefully along the edge of the trail, her feet light over the patches of slush and frozen soil. Spring had begun to melt the world, but the forest was still cold where the sun hadn't yet reached.
She clutched her walking spear in one hand, the weight of her leather bag shifting at her side. Her cloak—fur-lined and hand-stitched—swayed in the breeze like the pelt of some forgotten creature. Her short-cropped hair clung to her temples, wet with sweat under the hood.
It had taken her two days to reach the trail that led toward town.
Two days of skirting the road, avoiding the smoke of cabins, and eating dried meat by fireless moonlight.
And now, finally, she was here.
---
She heard laughter before she saw them.
Voices—two boys, somewhere just up the trail, tossing snow and shouting in that way only kids could.
Ash crouched low.
Instinct, not fear.
Her hand moved to the bone-handled knife at her waist.
She crept closer through a curtain of bare trees and peeked through.
Two boys.
One was tall, strong-looking, with a wild mop of black hair and a grin that felt almost too big for his face. He wore a coat half-zipped and carried a stick like it was a sword, swinging wildly.
The other was leaner, quieter. Sharper in the eyes. His coat was tighter, gloves intact. He parried with another stick—faster, more controlled.
They were laughing. Real laughter. Carefree.
---
Ash didn't know them.
But she recognized the energy—normalcy, something she hadn't seen in over a year.
She hesitated. Could still turn back.
But her legs were tired. Her supplies low.
And some small part of her—the part that used to be Bruce, that missed noise and warmth and human voices—took over.
She stepped onto the path.
---
The boys froze.
The tall one—Greg—turned first.
He stared at her like a squirrel had walked out of the trees wearing armor.
> "WHOA! What the heck?!"
He ran up to her like he was meeting a celebrity.
> "Are you from the woods?! You look awesome! Is that a real knife? Did you fight a bear? Or a mountain lion?"
He circled her like a puppy, eyes wide, taking in every bit of fur, rope, and stone she carried.
Ash blinked. "Wolves," she said flatly.
Greg gasped. "NO WAY."
---
The other boy—Will—approached slower.
He didn't speak at first.
He just stared.
At her boots. Her stitching. Her hands.
Her face.
His expression didn't shift, but something behind his eyes did.
---
> "You're alone?" he finally asked.
Ash nodded.
> "Name's Ash. I live over the mountain. I came to trade."
Will didn't respond.
He just kept watching.
---
Then Greg chimed in again.
> "Wait—are you a girl or a boy?"
Ash froze.
Her stomach twisted.
> "I'm a boy."
The lie came fast, reflexive, like a wall going up.
Greg tilted his head. "Really? You're kind of small."
> "I'm your age," she said, her voice flat.
Will blinked. "You don't look it."
Ash's jaw clenched.
> "I grew up wild. That's why."
---
There was an awkward silence.
Then Greg grinned, smacking his palm against his fist.
> "Only one way to find out."
Ash blinked. "What?"
> "We wrestle," Greg said, laughing. "If you can last a minute, I'll believe you."
Ash stared at him.
And then… something sparked.
Deep down in her chest—the ghost of Bruce, the memory of old gyms, of bruised ribs and laughing under pressure.
She cracked a smile.
> "Alright."
> "Let's wrestle."
---
The boys stomped out a patch of snow between the trees, clearing a space about ten feet wide. Slush clung to their boots, and the ground beneath was hard with half-frozen dirt and pine needles.
Ash stood across from Greg, her cloak folded neatly and draped over a log nearby. She'd stripped down to her inner tunic—rabbit fur lined and stitched from hide. Her arms were thin, but wiry. Scarred from bramble, strong from necessity.
Greg bounced on the balls of his feet, grinning from ear to ear.
> "Alright," he said, rolling his shoulders. "Last one standing wins. Or if you're pinned. You good with that?"
Ash nodded once.
Will, standing a few feet away, crossed his arms.
> "You sure about this?" he asked Ash. "You don't have to."
Ash turned to him. Her face was calm.
> "I want to."
---
Greg didn't wait for a countdown.
He lunged.
It wasn't a practiced move—just a burst of kid energy, arms outstretched like he was trying to tackle a snowman.
Ash pivoted.
Her feet dug into the slush. Her body turned with the impact, letting him grab her shoulder—but not her balance.
She bent low, twisted at the waist, and redirected him past her. Greg stumbled, nearly fell, then whipped around laughing.
> "You're fast!"
Ash didn't reply.
She moved in a slow circle, eyes watching his feet, not his face.
> He leads with his right. Big step. Wide balance.
She waited.
---
Greg charged again, this time lower.
He grabbed her around the waist and tried to lift her.
And this time he did—for a second.
But Ash kicked back hard with her foot, caught his shin, and used the drop in momentum to twist sideways. They hit the ground together.
He was on top—briefly.
Then her leg hooked his.
Her elbow pressed into his collar.
And then—
Flip.
---
Greg landed on his back, gasping.
Ash straddled him, pinning his wrists to the ground with surprising control. Her knees dug into the snow on either side of his chest.
Greg blinked up at her.
For the first time, he looked stunned.
And then—he laughed.
> "Whoa…"
> "Okay. Okay! You win!"
Ash stood slowly, brushing snow off her pants.
Greg stayed down a moment longer, grinning up at the sky.
> "You're a lot stronger than you look."
Will raised an eyebrow.
> "She's got technique," he said, stepping closer.
> "He," Ash corrected quietly.
Will blinked again, but didn't argue.
Instead, he said:
> "One more match."
Ash looked up.
> "You too?"
Will nodded. Calm. Controlled.
> "I want to see how you move."
Ash gave a faint smile. A flicker of something—challenge.
> "Fine."
> "Let's go."
---
Greg had barely caught his breath when Will stepped into the ring of trampled snow.
He didn't bounce or grin.
He didn't posture.
He just pulled off his gloves, tightened the cuffs of his coat, and faced Ash with the cool calm of someone who thinks before he moves.
Ash tilted her head slightly.
This wasn't like Greg.
This would be different.
---
> "Same rules?" she asked.
Will nodded.
> "No hitting. No knives. First one pinned."
Ash gave a tight nod.
Greg flopped onto a fallen log nearby, still catching his breath and beaming.
> "This is awesome," he muttered. "She's like a mini ninja."
> "He," Will corrected—automatically, but quietly.
Ash glanced at him, surprised.
Will didn't meet her eyes. He just stepped forward into position.
---
The match began in silence.
No charge this time.
Will circled slowly, watching her feet.
Ash mirrored him.
They moved like dancers—testing, measuring.
And then, quick as a snap, Will lunged—not at her chest, but her lead arm.
Ash twisted back, expecting a full-body rush like Greg's—but Will was already shifting. He swept her ankle, trying to trip her off-balance.
She staggered, caught herself, reversed.
A moment later, she went in—grabbed his wrist, ducked low, and spun behind him.
Will turned with her, using her momentum—almost caught her in a reversal—
But she slipped under.
They broke apart, breathing hard, still standing.
---
> "You're fast," Will said.
Ash narrowed her eyes.
> "You're smart."
A half-smile flickered at the corner of Will's mouth.
> "Again."
---
They clashed three more times.
Each time was faster. Closer.
Ash got a hold on his shoulder once, tried to roll—but he slipped out and twisted behind her.
Will went for a lock—but Ash ducked and pulled them both into the snow.
The final fall ended with Ash on one knee, her hand on his collarbone, breathing hard.
Will was on his back, staring up at the trees.
They were both panting.
Neither had truly won.
But neither had lost.
---
Greg whooped from the side.
> "That was AWESOME!"
He hopped up and ran over, grabbing Ash's arm.
> "Okay, okay—I believe you're a boy or a ninja or a mountain ghost or something. But you're cool. And that's what matters."
Ash pulled her arm away, gently.
But she didn't say no.
Will sat up, brushing snow from his coat.
He looked at her for a long moment—his expression hard to read.
Then, simply:
> "You hungry?"
Ash blinked.
> "Maybe."
Greg clapped his hands.
> "Let's go back to our place! I'll get food—and I can trade you stuff! I've got like... a slingshot. And some chocolate."
Ash raised an eyebrow.
> "You have chocolate?"
Greg grinned like he'd just won a prizefight.
> "Our parents are gone! House is all ours today."
Ash hesitated.
She glanced back toward the woods, toward the trail that led to town.
And then back at the boys.
Greg, full of chaos and welcome.
Will, quiet and sharp, but respectful.
> "Alright," she said softly.
> "Just for a little while."
---
The Wilson estate was nestled behind a tall iron gate, trimmed with pine hedges and set into the slope of the mountain like something out of a movie. Ash followed the boys up the curved driveway, heart thudding a little harder with each step.
The house wasn't massive like a palace. It was smart, symmetrical, and built with sharp lines and dark brick. Surveillance cameras perched silently on the corners. Motion lights flicked on as they approached.
> "This place is secure," she thought.
"Too secure for just a rich family."
Greg skipped ahead to the front door, fumbling with a key. Will hung back beside her.
> "Our mom works a lot," he said, tone casual. "She's really smart. Used to do stuff in Europe."
Ash nodded slowly, already trying to memorize the layout, the way Bruce would've during a house entry op.
> No cameras inside the foyer. One to the left above the door. Kitchen to the right. Living room straight ahead. Fireplace. Real leather couches.
...This isn't just rich. This is expensive.
---
Greg flung the door open.
> "Welcome to Castle Wilson!"
Ash stepped inside.
And froze.
---
Warmth hit her like a wave.
Not the subtle warmth of her Light Stones. Not the stubborn, smoky heat of a cave fire.
This was real.
Even.
Everywhere.
The floors were hardwood, clean and smooth beneath her feet. The air smelled of wood polish, electricity, and cinnamon toast. Sunlight poured through skylights onto a stone-lined fireplace, and a soft hum came from vents near the floor.
A television was on in the other room. Some cartoon. Bright colors, cheesy music.
Ash took a step forward, slow.
Greg had already kicked off his boots and was rummaging through a cupboard in the kitchen.
Will stood behind her quietly, watching her face.
> "You okay?"
She didn't answer.
She was too busy looking.
> "This is what warmth feels like. This is what home smells like."
Her fingers twitched at her side.
> "I only ever saw homes like this when I was Bruce—on crime scenes. Blood in the carpet. Broken picture frames. Empty rooms. I never lived in one."
---
Greg reappeared with a granola bar and a soda.
> "Want one?"
Ash blinked.
> "...Okay."
She took it. The wrapper crinkled in her hand. Even that sound felt strange.
> "This is real. I'm really here."
---
Will tapped her shoulder gently.
> "Hey. You, uh… want to clean up? I've got some clothes that might fit."
Ash froze.
Greg perked up.
> "Oh yeah! Take a shower! We've got hot water! It's amazing! You'll love it."
Ash's first instinct was to refuse.
> "No, I'm fine."
But her voice cracked. She looked down at herself—layers of stitched fur, leather, ash stains, dirt crusted around her knees.
> "Am I fine?"
Will stepped in carefully.
> "You can take your time. No one's gonna bother you."
> "There's towels. Soap. Clothes if you want. You don't have to say anything."
Ash looked at him. The boy with the quiet eyes. The one who hadn't doubted her in the fight. The one who watched without judging.
> "...Really?"
Will nodded.
> "Really."
---
Greg added, cheerfully:
> "Then we can eat and watch cartoons! You'll love it. There's this show with aliens and swords!"
Ash stood in the hallway, hand tightening around her bag strap.
Then she slowly nodded.
> "Okay. Just a little while."
And she followed Will down the hall.
---
The bathroom door clicked shut behind her.
Ash stood in the middle of the tiled floor, surrounded by smooth porcelain and bright light. It was warm—unnaturally warm—and the air smelled clean, like citrus and something flowery she couldn't name.
Steam drifted gently from behind a frosted glass panel where the shower was already running. Will had turned it on for her, then vanished with quiet tact. A towel lay neatly folded on the sink. A soft cotton shirt and sweatpants rested beside it—neutral colors, slightly too big.
She hadn't said a word.
---
Ash stood still for a long time.
Hands at her sides. Eyes scanning the room like a wolf entering a new den.
Everything in here was white. Polished. Shining.
Not just clean, but cared for. Designed.
> "I could never have imagined this."
She reached out and touched the towel.
It was warm.
---
Slowly, she peeled off her furs.
Layer by layer, unstrapping her belt, unwrapping her boots. Her stitched cloak. The grass-lined inner layers. Her tunic, brittle with old smoke. Her leggings, frayed at the knees. One by one, she placed them on the tiled bench beside the sink.
The air kissed her bare skin, and for the first time in this life—she felt small.
Not in strength.
But in scale.
This house was not her cave.
This light was not her stones.
This warmth was not survival.
It was something else.
> "Luxury."
---
She stepped into the shower.
Hot water hit her shoulders, and she gasped.
It wasn't pain—but shock. Her skin twitched. Her muscles tensed. Then slowly, slowly, the tension melted away.
Water ran down her arms, across her chest, into her tangled hair.
> "I'm clean," she thought.
Not dry-scrubbed with snow. Not dipped in a freezing creek.
Clean.
---
She stayed in the stream until her fingertips wrinkled.
She let her eyes close and tilted her face into the water. Steam curled around her neck.
For a while, she wasn't Ash. Or Bruce. Or Lili.
She was just… warm.
---
Later, she wiped the fog from the mirror and saw herself.
Short hair, damp and clinging to her forehead.
Big blue eyes. Pale, soft face. No scars.
Just a girl.
> "No—" she whispered.
But her voice wavered.
She stared longer.
Her lips were full. Her jaw still rounded. Her chest flat, her hips narrow—but not forever.
> "Not until I grow... girly parts."
"Then... maybe. But not yet."
She blinked hard.
> "Not yet."
---
She pulled on the clothes Will left. The sweatpants were soft. The shirt brushed her shoulders like silk.
They didn't itch. They didn't scratch.
They didn't smell like moss or blood or woodsmoke.
They smelled… like nothing.
She tied her hair back with a clean string from her bag. Just enough to keep it neat.
Then she stepped out of the bathroom.
Clean.
Dressed.
And for the first time in two lives—
Almost comfortable.
---
The hallway smelled like food.
Not wild meat or dried berries. Not charred bark or root mash. Real food—buttered toast, something cheesy, something warm.
Ash stepped softly toward the sound of cartoon music and laughter. Her bare feet sank into a thick hallway rug. The house creaked gently, but not in fear or pain—just in comfort.
She entered the living room.
---
Greg was sprawled on a wide leather couch, legs draped over the armrest, a bowl of popcorn in his lap and a cartoon space battle flashing on the television. He wore a loose T-shirt and mismatched socks, and he grinned the moment he saw her.
> "Hey! There you are! Cleaned up nice!"
Will sat nearby in a high-backed armchair, a book open in his lap—but his eyes were on her, not the page.
Ash stood in the doorway a moment longer than she meant to.
The couch.
The table.
The bookshelves. The fireplace.
All of it was real.
Not something to admire from behind crime scene tape.
Not something that meant loss or lies.
Just… a home.
---
Greg patted the cushion beside him.
> "Sit down! It's the best part—Zorbul just crash-landed on the moon and he's gotta outsmart this alien worm thing!"
Ash moved carefully.
She perched on the edge of the couch. The cushion gave under her, soft and warm.
Greg offered the bowl of popcorn.
> "Take some. We've got more in the kitchen."
Ash hesitated, then took a small handful.
The buttery salt hit her tongue like a revelation.
---
Will watched her quietly, then said, "You really haven't done this before, have you?"
Ash looked at him.
Not defensive. Just honest.
> "No."
Will didn't press. But something in his gaze softened.
---
The show blared across the screen—spaceships and lasers and explosions.
Greg leaned toward her, whispering:
> "Zorbul always wins. But he gets beat up a lot first."
Ash smirked, just a little.
> "Sounds familiar."
---
Minutes passed.
Ash relaxed into the couch. The popcorn bowl sat between her and Greg. The cartoon music played on.
Will flipped the page in his book but kept glancing up—watching the way her shoulders began to sink, the way her fingers stopped twitching.
She didn't talk much.
But she didn't leave.
And for the first time in two lives—
Ash wasn't alone.
---
The episode ended in a flash of laser beams and heroic music. Greg launched into a full recap of the plot with wild hand gestures and sound effects, laughing through his own summary.
Ash barely heard him.
She was warm. Clean. Full.
And more than anything, she was off-balance.
This place—this house—wasn't just a contrast to the mountain.
It was another world.
From the glowing television to the humming appliances, from the smooth walls to the flickering analog clock mounted above the fireplace, everything felt slightly off.
Old.
Too old.
> "What year is it?"
She hadn't meant to say it aloud. But the words came out anyway—soft, almost buried under Greg's narration.
Will looked up from his book.
> "Eighty-three," he said casually. "Why?"
Ash's heart skipped.
> "Eighty… three?" she repeated.
Will nodded. "Nineteen eighty-three. March. I think."
Greg chimed in. "Yeah! We're gonna get our bikes out soon, once the snow's gone!"
Ash sat frozen.
> "That can't be right."
> "Frank and I weren't even born yet."
> "I was born in '92. Frank in '89. This… this is nine years before that."
She stared at the floor.
The popcorn tasted like nothing now.
Her hands curled into the fabric of her pants.
> "Not just the wrong body. The wrong time."
> "I'm a ghost in a world that hasn't even made my life yet."
---
Will was watching her again.
She could feel it.
But she didn't look up.
She nodded slowly.
> "Thanks," she murmured.
He said nothing else.
And she was grateful for it.
---
Inside, her mind raced.
Everything she had assumed—the world, the rules, even her future—was now off the map.
There was no internet. No smartphones. No GPS.
There was no Frank.
Not yet.
> "Even if he's here... he's just a baby."
Her chest ached.
But she didn't cry.
---
Because Bruce would've panicked.
Lili would've broken.
But Ash?
Ash would wait.
Would adapt.
Would survive.
---
> "Live first. Fix things later."
She clenched her jaw. Repeated it like a prayer.
And looked back at the screen just as the next cartoon started.
> "What's this one?" she asked.
Greg brightened. "Oh! You'll love this one—there's robots!"
Ash nodded.
Settled back.
And decided—for now—not to tell them anything.
---
The second cartoon rolled on, loud and ridiculous and full of bright color. Greg watched with his whole body, feet on the coffee table, hands flying with every spaceship and explosion. Will read beside him, only occasionally glancing at the screen.
Ash sat still, her legs tucked under her, the bowl of popcorn now resting in her lap. She didn't eat. Just sat.
And absorbed.
The warmth of the couch.
The weight of clean clothes on her body.
The subtle, strange ache in her chest.
She'd had friends, once.
No—a friend.
Frank.
Only Frank.
Now, there were two boys sitting within arm's reach, treating her like she belonged here.
---
Greg leaned toward her between bites.
> "Hey. You wanna stay for dinner? We've got frozen pizza."
Ash blinked.
> "I don't want to get in the way."
Greg frowned. "You're not."
Will didn't even look up from his book.
> "No one's coming home until late tomorrow. We're on our own."
Ash looked between them.
Two boys in a warm house with soft couches and food to spare.
And her.
A mountain ghost in borrowed clothes.
---
> "They think I'm one of them."
> "Even though I'm not."
> "Even though I'm..."
She didn't finish the thought.
Instead, she looked down at her hands.
Small. Clean now.
Still trembling a little from the inside.
She closed them into fists.
---
> "Maybe I don't need to be 'one of them.'"
> "Maybe this—just this—is enough for now."
---
Greg got up and disappeared into the kitchen.
Will finally looked at her again. Not guarded, not suspicious—just thoughtful.
> "You're strong," he said simply. "Stronger than you look."
Ash didn't answer right away.
She stared at the television, the flickering lights reflecting in her eyes.
> "You don't know the half of it," she said softly.
Will raised an eyebrow. "Maybe not. But I know enough."
Then, after a pause:
> "You can stay as long as you want."
---
Ash looked away.
Her eyes stung again, but this time, it wasn't cold.
---
She had survived the mountain.
But this?
This was harder.
---
> Being seen.
Being welcomed.
Being warm.
---
She whispered under her breath:
> "I have a home."
Not just the cave.
Not just the forest.
Here.
Even if just for now.
> "I have a home."
---