Chapter 37 Ashes And Quiet #2
“Morning,” he said, voice soft enough not to spook anyone who might be listening. His eyes flicked to the kitchen, the clean table, the line of dishes drying by the sink. “You didn’t have to…”
“Can’t help it,” I said. “It’s a compulsion. Leftover from growing up in a house where mess could get you grounded.” The joke fell flat, landing somewhere between truth and apology.
Aiden smiled. “Looks good,” he said. He set the firewood beside the hearth and began stacking the logs with slow, measured patience.
I watched him a moment, wishing I could bottle up his steadiness and drink it. “Where’d you go?” I asked because silence was suddenly a stranger here.
“Perimeter,” he said. “Making sure there weren’t any surprises.” He paused, the next log balanced in his hands. “The wolves will keep their distance during the day. They’re not wild, but they’re not tame, either. They’re… pack.”
He let the word hang there, and it sounded almost holy in the context of this place, like “family” but so much older and more real. I nodded, unsure what to say.
I wanted to ask how he’d ended up here, what it meant to be the kind of person who could coexist with monsters and not lose himself, but that felt too raw, too close to the bone.
So I just dried my hands on the back of my jeans and gestured in the general direction of Mateo’s thudding footsteps down the corridor.
“Showers are happening,” I said.
Aiden’s eyebrows lifted, faintly amused. “You sure you want to waste hot water on a day like this?”
I snorted. “I’m not raising a feral child. At least not completely.” But the idea of wasting anything, warmth, time, the illusion of safety, made me uneasy.
As the water ran, I turned to Aiden. “Do you have any spare clothes for Mateo?” His eyes flickered with understanding, and he nodded before disappearing into the guest bedroom.
I could hear the faint rustle of fabric as he rummaged through drawers, the creaking of the old floorboards under his weight.
When he returned, he held out a collection of faded T-shirts and shorts. Some were emblazoned with logos from long-forgotten summer camps and some classic rock bands; others bore the frayed edges of countless washes. They looked almost comically small in his hands yet still oversized for Mateo.
Aiden’s voice broke through my thoughts. “I thought you might want to take a shower, too.”
His eyes met mine. I offered him a grateful smile, appreciating his thoughtfulness as I hovered between the kitchen and the living room.
I waited for the sound of Mateo’s footsteps to echo from the bathroom, while restlessly straightening the few things closer to me, in a semblance of control.
“There’s still some soup simmering on the stove, and I could whip up a grilled cheese if you’re hungry,” I suggested, my voice light as I leaned against the counter, hoping to coax a smile from him. Aiden shook his head, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes.
When the shower hissed off, I called up, “Don’t forget to dry off or you’ll freeze your butt off!”
“I heard that!” Mateo yelled back, but his voice was lighter now, more himself. I was grateful.
Aiden and I exchanged an awkward, silent truce in the kitchen. He busied himself by fixing the fire, and I inspected the pantry again, just to be sure I hadn’t missed some hidden treasure. I hadn’t, unless you counted a can of off-brand pudding and a single, dented can of pineapple chunks.
“Want some coffee?” I asked, motioning to the ancient coffeemaker, which looked like it might be older than the cabin itself.
“Always,” he said, with a nod.
I set the coffeepot up and let the smell of cheap grounds fill the room. It was so achingly normal that I almost cried.
When Mateo finally emerged, he was wearing a towel as a cape and nothing else. He caught sight of Aiden and froze, mid-strut, then hastily yanked the towel around his waist like a shield.
Aiden ducked his head, smiling at the floor, and said, “Morning, Mateo.” If it was strange to see a wolf shifter in his own house, it was stranger still to see one act like an embarrassed camp counselor.
“Hi,” Mateo said, pretending he hadn’t just been strutting like a superhero.
“Here, take these and go get dressed. We’re not animals,” I said, and shooed him toward the guest room at the back of the hall. He stomped off, but his eyes lingered on Aiden.
When he was gone, I poured two mugs and handed one to Aiden. I sipped mine, letting the bitterness scrape my tongue clean.
Outside, the sun had burned away the last of the cold mist. The world was alive in a way I hadn’t felt in years: birds calling, wind in the pines, some small animal rustling under the porch.
It was a painting of safety, and I wanted to believe in it so badly.
I drained the last of my coffee, then set the mug in the sink with exaggerated care, as if this ritual of neatness could fend off the chaos waiting to reclaim my little scrap of order.
“I’m going to take that shower now,” I said, and left Aiden in the kitchen.
The hallway was short, but it felt longer with every step.
I could hear the tail end of Mateo’s post-shower chaos: drawers banging, the thudding of sockless feet, the muffled thump of him launching himself onto the guest bed.
I ducked into the bathroom and locked the door, just for the luxury of a barrier between myself and the world, even if it was paper-thin.
The bathroom was even less impressive: a cracked linoleum floor, a medicine cabinet with a warped mirror that made my face look like an oil painting left out in the rain, and a clawfoot tub that might have once been ivory but now matched the gray dust in the window.
I stripped quickly, wincing at the bruises that had started to bloom across my ribs and hips, oblique constellations of what we’d survived.
I removed the bandages and turned on the water, half-expecting the pipes to shriek in protest, but instead they coughed to life, spitting out a rush of hot steam so dense it made my eyes water.
Standing under the spray, I let everything fall away, the blood, the dirt, the persistent ache in my temples. For three glorious minutes, it was just water and skin and the possibility that I could soak the fear right out of me.
I shampooed twice, letting the sharp, medicinal scent of old-man soap cut through the anxiety lingering in my hair and scalp. The hot water ran out before I could rinse off a second time, and I yelped as it turned arctic, goosebumps erupting instantly.
I towel-dried, hastily, wrapping myself in the faded blue terrycloth that smelled faintly of pine needles and the past. Rummaging through the stack of clothes Aiden had given me, I found an old thermal and a pair of sweatpants, both much too big, but I rolled the waistband and felt almost weightless in someone else’s history.
I even found a pair of thick socks, the heels worn through, but they were soft and warm, and I pulled them on with something like gratitude.
When I emerged, the world had recalibrated.
The kitchen was empty. Aiden had disappeared, maybe to the yard or the woods, or just to give us the illusion of privacy. The silence was different now, not heavy, but expectant, as if it was waiting for us to decide what kind of people we were going to be in it.
I padded down the hallway, stopping to peek into the guest room.
Mateo was sprawled on the bed, fully clothed, but tangled up in the towel-turned-cape, fiercely reading a battered copy of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.
The sight stopped me cold. Of all the books he could have chosen from the weirdly specific library in the living room, he’d picked that one.
I wondered if he saw himself as one of the Pevensie kids, lost, half-wild, tumbling through portals into worlds he never asked for.
“Hey,” I said, leaning in the doorway. “You want to stick together today?”
He looked up, eyes glassy with the last of yesterday’s terror. “Can we just… read? Or something?”
“Absolutely.” I ruffled his hair, then handed him the first of the clean, if questionably stylish, T-shirts I’d appropriated for him.
He tucked it and the book under the pillow, then followed me into the main room, his steps measured and careful, as if walking too fast would shatter the fragile safety we’d built.
We retreated to the living room, which felt more like an idea than a place: walls of books, mostly military history and, weirdly, dog training manuals; a threadbare rug; and the fire’s dying glow leaking red over everything.
I coaxed Mateo onto the couch, wrapped him in a blanket, and surveyed the small collection of battered paperbacks piled near the hearth.
He picked one out, wordlessly, and handed it to me.
The cover had long since been lost to the ages, but I recognized the book: The Hero’s Lantern, a fantasy we’d borrowed from the library so many times the librarian finally told us to keep it.
It was the kind of story I’d never liked as a kid, too much darkness, not enough payoff, but Mateo had always been obsessed with it, especially the parts where the hero lost his way in the forest, wandering for pages and pages with nothing but hope and a stubborn refusal to die.
I thumbed to the first chapter and started to read. My voice was low, a bit scratchy, but the words came anyway, marching steady into the hush.
“The woods grew darker with every step,” I read, the story echoing in the empty corners of the cabin.
“But Rowan didn’t turn back. He held the lantern high, even as the shadows bit at his heels.
He remembered what the old woman had said, that as long as he kept the flame alive, he could never truly be lost.”
Mateo curled closer, chin tucked to his knees, eyes fixed on the little lantern drawn in the margins. His breathing slowed, each inhale deeper than the last. I kept reading, letting the cadence of the story wrap around both of us like a second blanket.
As Rowan stumbled through forests, crossed bridges made of spider silk and ancient bones, and talked to the dead in their own language, I heard Mateo’s breath hitch, then settle.
He was almost asleep, but not quite, still hanging on to the words, needing them to fill the spaces the world had left empty.
The story was a mirror. I felt it with every line.
Rowan never stopped, even when the darkness pressed in, even when the monsters circled, because he had someone waiting for him on the other side. He kept the lantern burning, not because it was easy, but because that’s what you did when you loved someone enough to walk through hell for them.
“Rowan should’ve just burned the forest,” Mateo muttered.
“That’s not how heroes work,” I said.
“Maybe it should be.”
I didn’t get through the chapter. Before the hero could find his way home, Mateo’s head lolled sideways, heavy and boneless, landing in my lap. I tucked the book against my chest and ran my fingers through his hair, smoothing the cowlicks and the wild strands the day had left behind.
His face, in sleep, was pure, unguarded; the edges of fear and fatigue melted away.
I stroked his temple, memorizing the pattern of his lashes, the freckles blooming across his nose, the faint mark on his chin from where he’d fallen two summers ago chasing a soccer ball across the playground blacktop.
Gratitude and guilt warred inside me. I’d brought him here.
I’d kept him alive. But I’d also let him into a world of monsters, of men who wore human faces but lived to devour anything I ever loved.
I was the reason he had to learn about pain so young, the reason he’d felt fear before he’d even learned to swim.
I wanted to fix it. I wanted to promise him the woods would always end, that the monsters would stay in their cages, that the worst thing he’d ever have to face would be a math test or a lost lunchbox.
But I couldn’t.
All I could do was hold him, let his warmth seep into me, and keep reading, if only in my head, the rest of the story, where the hero survives, the flame never goes out, and nothing bad ever happens again.
I watched his chest rise and fall. I listened to the soft whistle of air through his nose. And I stayed right there, keeping vigil, holding him close, refusing to let go, no matter how long the night decided to last.