6. Mika

MIKA

The crisp mountain air bites at my cheeks, turning them a rosy pink that would have, once upon a time, required my blush compact to achieve. Now, it just feels good to feel something so natural, so untainted by the fear and anxiety that had become my constant companions.

Wrapped in a thick jacket, I trudge through the forest, the crunching sounds of twigs and fallen leaves accompanying me as I gather firewood. Each log I heft into my arms, each snap as I break a fallen branch, feels like a small victory. This is me, surviving. This is me, taking care of myself, relying on my own two hands.

I"m humming a tuneless melody under my breath as I add another log to the growing pile by the cabin door when I feel it—a prickle of awareness, a tingling sensation that runs down my spine like a jolt of electricity. It"s subtle, easily dismissed as a trick of the wind or my overactive imagination. But something deep within me, something primal and instinctive, screams out that I'm no longer alone out here.

Please no.

I freeze, every muscle in my body going taut. My gaze darts around the clearing, searching for the source of my unease. The trees sway gently in the breeze, their leaves whispering secrets I can never decipher. The only sound besides their rustling leaves is the frantic thumping of my own heart.

"Hello?" My voice, when I finally find it, is a shaky whisper. I clear my throat and try again. "Is anyone there?"

Silence.

I listen for the longest time. But when nothing happens, I chide myself for being paranoid. It"s probably just a deer or a rabbit, startled by my presence. Still, the unsettling feeling lingers, a knot of tension in my gut.

Hurriedly, I gather my firewood and practically throw the wood inside before bolting inside and locking the door behind me.

My breath comes in ragged gasps as I lean against the solid wood, my hand pressed against my racing heart. I tell myself it"s nothing, just the wind playing tricks on me. But the fear is a living thing inside me, whispering warnings I can"t ignore.

Pulling myself together, I move to the windows, drawing the moth-eaten curtains closed. It's not much, but the cabin feels instantly more secure.

I watch the clearing through a tiny hole in the fabric, my senses on high alert. Every rustle of leaves, every creak of the cabin"s old bones, sends a shiver down my spine. I know it"s probably irrational—I mean, who could possibly think to come looking for me here—but this fear clings to me like a second skin, and I can"t shake the feeling that I"m not as alone as I think.