I bought the cabin because it was cheap, quiet, and far enough from people that I could breathe properly for the first time in years.

The listing called it rustic, which was a polite way of saying the porch sagged and the chimney had a habit of coughing up soot when the wind turned.

But I didn't care.

The locals hadn't been subtle when I signed the closing paperwork.

One of the county clerks asked if I brought salt, which I thought was a joke, until

I looked up and realised she wasn't smiling. Someone else called the field,

tired land, and made a vague sign with the fingers that I couldn't place. Old superstition,

I figured, rural folklore. I nodded, kept my head down, and drove the dirt road alone.

I wasn't there for company, or to make friends.

Jasper was the only thing that mattered.

Thirteen years old and slowing down, but alert, still loyal in that quiet way dogs get when they've seen you

at your worst and stayed anyway.

He curled into the passenger seat as we pulled into the gravel clearing in front of the

cabin, nose pressed to the glass, tail giving a few tired thumps when he caught the smell

of the wilderness.

He stepped out of the truck with a stiff dignity of an old man and padded around the porch

like he was inspecting it for me.

The first few weeks were perfect.

Cold in the mornings, warm by noon, nature lullabies instead of sirens.

I spent my time patching the windows, oiling the door hinges, reading beside the wood stove

with Jasper snoring at my feet. We walked the perimeter every day at dusk, his ears twitching toward the brush even when nothing moved.

He liked it out there. I think we both did.

...