The road narrowed into a cracked, broken path, flanked by weeds and hollowed-out trees.
Calen adjusted the lantern's strap across his shoulder.
Its soft light barely touched the growing twilight, but he carried it anyway.
It wasn't the darkness outside that mattered most.
It was the darkness people carried inside.
He crested a small hill and saw it:
a sagging farmhouse crouched against the fading sky, its roof patched with mismatched wood, its porch tilting like a shipwreck.
Smoke rose faintly from a crooked chimney.
Signs of life — or maybe just signs of someone surviving in the shell of a life they used to have.
Calen hesitated at the gate, one hand resting on the weather-worn latch.
Then he pushed it open.
The hinges screeched like wounded birds.
He made his way up the creaking steps.
Before he could knock, the door swung open.
A man stood there.
Broad-shouldered, thickly built, his hair once dark but now peppered with gray.
His face was hard, his eyes wary, shadowed by something deeper than suspicion.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then the man crossed his arms.
Man:
"You lost?"
Calen shook his head.
Calen:
"Just… walking."
The man's gaze dropped to the lantern.
Man:
(gruffly)
"Not much call for light around here."
Calen:
(softly)
"Sometimes the places that seem brightest are the ones that need it most."
The man barked a short laugh — sharp, humorless.
Man:
"You one of those charity types?
Come to save the broken man in the woods?"
Calen shrugged.
Calen:
"Not here to save anyone.
Just passing through.
Thought maybe… someone could use some company."
The man stared at him for a long moment.
Then, without a word, he stepped aside.
Calen entered.
The house smelled of old wood, cold ash, and something metallic — like regret soaked into the walls.
Inside, the living room sagged under the weight of silence.
Half-finished furniture lay abandoned: a chair missing a leg, a table with no top.
Wood shavings coated the floor like dust.
Man:
(gruffly)
"Name's Elias."
Calen:
"Calen."
Elias pointed at the threadbare couch.
Elias:
"Sit, if you want.
Don't say I didn't warn you about the hospitality."
Calen set the lantern on the scarred coffee table, its light pooling weakly across old stains and forgotten carvings.
He sat.
Elias dropped heavily into a chair across from him, the frame groaning under his weight.
He said nothing.
Neither did Calen.
Sometimes, silence was an invitation.
Sometimes, it was armor.
Calen waited.
Elias leaned forward, elbows on his knees, rubbing his hands together like he was trying to scrub something invisible off them.
Elias:
(low)
"You know anything about woodwork, boy?"
Calen shook his head.
Calen:
"Not much.
Just that it takes patience.
And hands willing to build."
Elias snorted.
Elias:
"Hands willing to build.
Yeah.
Had those once."
He looked around the room — at the broken chair, the half-finished table, the memories ghosting along the walls.
Elias:
"Used to make cradles.
Toys.
Cabinets folks would pay good coin for.
Put my whole damn heart into it."
His voice caught slightly.
He cleared his throat, rough and sharp.
Elias:
"Made a rocking horse once.
For my little girl's third birthday.
Spent months on it.
Carved her name into the side — Ellie Mae.
She lit up like the damn sun when she saw it."
He smiled then — a broken, shattered thing — the kind of smile people wear when remembering hurts more than forgetting.
Calen:
(gently)
"What happened?"
Elias didn't answer right away.
Instead, he stood up abruptly and crossed the room.
He pulled open a drawer and tossed a worn photo onto the table.
It slid across the wood and came to rest in front of Calen.
A woman and a young girl, laughing together under a huge oak tree.
The girl held a small wooden horse in her arms, beaming at the camera.
Calen touched the photo lightly, as if afraid it might crumble.
Elias:
(quiet)
"Two years ago.
Driving back from town.
Rain came down hard.
Roads slick as ice."
He sank back into his chair, head in his hands.
Elias:
(hoarse)
"I was driving.
Swerved to miss a deer.
Hit a ditch.
Car flipped."
The words fell heavy between them, each one a small collapse.
Elias:
"My wife… gone on impact.
My Ellie…
she held on for a few hours.
Long enough for me to say goodbye."
His shoulders shook once — a quick, angry tremor — and then stilled.
Elias:
(bitterly)
"My hands.
These damn hands.
Built everything.
Protected nothing."
Calen sat quietly, the lantern's flame casting long, trembling shadows across the room.
Calen:
(soft)
"It wasn't your fault."
Elias:
(sharp)
"Doesn't matter.
They're still dead."
He laughed then, a hollow, gutted sound.
Elias:
"After that…
couldn't touch wood again.
Couldn't build a damn thing.
Felt like… like making anything was a lie."
Calen:
"Because the ones you made it for are gone."
Elias nodded, his jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumped.
A long silence wrapped around them.
Not cold.
Not cruel.
Just… honest.
Finally, Calen spoke.
Calen:
(quietly)
"Do you think… they'd want you to stop living too?"
Elias barked a harsh laugh.
Elias:
"What I want doesn't matter.
What I deserve…
that's another story."
Calen leaned forward, resting his hands lightly on the lantern's handle.
Calen:
"Maybe…
it's not about deserving.
Maybe it's about carrying."
Elias looked at him, confused.
Calen:
"Carrying the love.
Carrying the memories.
Carrying the parts of them that didn't die."
Elias stared at him — really stared — like seeing a ghost.
Or a truth he hadn't dared name.
Elias:
(hoarse)
"How the hell do you carry something that heavy?"
Calen:
(soft)
"You don't.
Not all at once.
You build something small.
Piece by piece.
Until the weight… becomes part of you.
And somehow, you keep walking."
Elias bowed his head, his broad shoulders trembling slightly.
The lantern flickered between them, a small, stubborn flame against the gathering dark.