Chapter 20
Marco
T he silence does not hold this time. It fractures.
I am still standing by the window when the memory shifts from something contained into something immediate, the distance between then and now collapsing in a way that does not feel like recollection but like return, and I am no longer in the cabin with snow stretching clean and quiet beyond the glass but back there, where the air is thick with heat and dust and the metallic tang of blood that settles into your lungs before you can recognize it for what it is.
The ground is uneven beneath my knees, hard-packed and slick where it should not be, and Alvarez is in front of me again, not as an abstraction or a name on the other end of a call, but as he was, his weight heavy against my hands as I press down, as I try to stop something that does not want to be stopped.
“Stay with me,” I hear myself say, my voice steady in a way that feels disconnected from the chaos around us, because that is what training does, it narrows the world to what matters, to what you can control, to what you can fix if you move fast enough and do not let anything else in.
He is breathing, but it is wrong, shallow and uneven, and there is too much blood, more than there should be if this is something I can manage, more than the protocols account for, and I adjust my pressure, my hands slick despite everything I have learned about maintaining control in situations like this.
“You’re not going anywhere,” I tell him again, because words matter in moments like this, because you anchor someone to the present however you can, even if you are not sure it will hold.
His eyes find mine, unfocused but aware enough that I see the question there, the one he does not ask because he does not need to, because he already knows.
And I answer it anyway.
“I’ve got you,” I say.
The memory fractures again, the sound of something distant cutting through, sharp and immediate, and for a second I am split between two places, the past pressing forward while the present tries to reassert itself, the cabin walls solid around me, the window still framing the snow, the air cold and clean in a way that does not match what I am seeing.
I force a breath in, deeper this time, counting without thinking because it is the only thing that might anchor me, the only thing that might create enough space between what was and what is.
Breathe in for four seconds.
Hold.
Out for six seconds.
It does not work the way it usually does.
The memory does not recede. It expands, filling the space I have kept for it with a clarity that strips away the distance I have relied on, and I feel the shift fully now, the way the foundation I have built begins to strain under something it was not designed to carry.
He died.
Not then. Not there.
But it does not matter. The outcome is the same.
I move away from the window without thinking about it, the need to move overriding everything else, the cabin suddenly too still, too quiet, the contained space no longer grounding but constricting, and I reach for my jacket, my keys, the motions automatic even as my mind struggles to align with them.
This is not something I can sit with.
That realization comes with a clarity that cuts through everything else, not as a question but as a directive, an immediate need to act, to move, to do something that aligns with the weight of what just happened.
The funeral.
The word settles into place before I fully articulate it, and once it is there, it becomes the only logical next step, the only action that makes sense in the context of what I am feeling.
I have to go.
There is no hesitation in that conclusion, no space for debate, because the alternative would mean staying here, sitting in this cabin with the knowledge of what I could not prevent, of what I believed I had already resolved, and letting it settle into me without doing anything to counter it.
Movement is the only option.
I grab my phone, checking the time, calculating distances without fully engaging with the numbers, because the specifics do not matter yet, only the direction does, only the fact that I need to leave.
Maya.
The thought comes uninvited, cutting through the urgency with a different kind of weight, and I stop for a second, my hand tightening around the phone as I consider what that means, what she represents in this moment.
She is waiting.
She said she would be there.
A week. We agreed on a week. It will be longer
I could call her and further explain.
I close my eyes briefly, the image of her in the café, the way she looked at me when she said she believed me, rising to the surface with a clarity that feels almost cruel in the context of everything else.
The option is there, clear and immediate, and for a second I consider it fully, what it would mean to reach out, to bring her into this moment, to let her see this part of me that I have spent years trying to manage, to control, to contain.
And then the other side of it surfaces.
The version of me that is standing here now, the one whose control is slipping, whose thoughts are narrowing, whose past is no longer contained within the boundaries I set for it.
This is not the man she saw in the cabin. This is not the man she chose to trust again. This is something else. Something I do not trust.
“She’s safer without me.”
The words form without conscious thought, settling into place with a certainty that feels familiar, because I have been here before, not in the exact same circumstances but in the same pattern, the same conclusion drawn from a different set of variables.
Distance equals safety.
It always has.
I look at my phone again, my thumb hovering over her name, and I feel the pull of it, the part of me that wants to break the pattern, that wants to do this differently, that wants to prove that I can handle both the past and the present without letting one destroy the other.
But the weight of what just happened presses harder, louder, the memory of Alvarez bleeding out beneath my hands overriding everything else, rewriting the equation in a way that leaves no room for risk.
I lower the phone. Not now. Not like this.
I can’t speak to her. No option. But somehow, I manage to send a simple text:
A former colleague from the Marines, Alvarez, has died. I need to go. I will get back as soon as I can.
I move through the cabin quickly after that, grabbing what I need without fully registering each item, the process driven by urgency rather than intention, the structure I rely on slipping into something more reactive, more immediate.
The door opens to the cold air outside, and the shift is sharp, grounding in a way that cuts through the internal noise just enough to keep me moving forward.
The ATV is where I left it, the snow around it disturbed but manageable, and I start it with a familiarity that does not require thought, the engine catching on the first attempt this time, the sound loud and steady in the open space.
I do not look back at the cabin as I pull away.
I know what I would see.
The place where I thought I had found something stable.
The place where I let myself believe that I could be more than the sum of what I have done and what I have failed to do.
The place where she looked at me and chose to stay.
The trail down is faster this time, not reckless but urgent, the terrain less of a factor than the need to move, to put distance between myself and the space that no longer holds the same control it did before.
The town comes into view sooner than it should, the transition from isolation to movement abrupt in a way that mirrors the shift inside me, and I register it without engaging, without allowing myself to process it fully.
There is only one possible direction now.
I must move forward. I must move away.
I do not stop at her building.
I do not even slow down as I pass the café, even though I know she is there, even though I can picture exactly where she would be, the counter, the window, the place where she said she would wait.
The thought is there, sharp and immediate, and I push it aside because engaging with it would mean stopping, would mean reconsidering, would mean risking something I am not in control of right now.
And I cannot risk that. Not with this. Not with her.
The road out of town opens ahead, the path clear despite the lingering snow, and I accelerate, the engine responding beneath me with a steady power that matches the urgency driving me forward.
The mountains rise in the distance, familiar and distant at the same time, and I fix my focus on them, on the direction they represent, on the movement itself.
I do not know how long I will be gone. I do not know what state I will be in when I come back. I do not know if I will come back in a way that aligns with what she believes about me, with what I wanted to believe about myself.
But I know this.
She will be safer without me in this current state. Even if it means repeating the same mistake. Even if it means breaking something that had a chance to become real. Even if it means she will hate me for it.
“She’ll hate me,” I say aloud, the words lost to the wind as I push forward, the road stretching out in front of me with a clarity that leaves no room for doubt.
“But at least she’ll be safe.”