Rowan

Quiet day. That's fine. I checked the snares—nothing. Brought water back from the creek. Maintained my tools. There's a certain peace in routine, in knowing your land and moving through it without surprise. But quiet days leave too much room for thinking. Been turning over old thoughts: my hunting partner who couldn't keep silent, the woman last month who turned down food because of pride, the young couple who keep more than they need while the old man in the north gets thin. The forest doesn't judge these things. It just takes. I've stopped trying to make sense of people the way I used to. Simpler to focus on what I can control—my shelter, my supplies, my vigilance. A day like today, nothing learned but nothing lost either. I'm still standing.

Mira found me today. She was gentle about it, just an observation—said I'm rarer to notice because most people don't like being seen. I told her the truth: being noticed means owing something. But sitting with that now, I think I was sharp when I didn't need to be. She wasn't asking for anything. Just noticing. There's a difference. The rest of the day was quiet. Rested, drank, walked the land. That's how I like it—alone with what's real and necessary. But something in what Mira said caught under my skin. Maybe isolation becomes a choice, and choice becomes a habit, and then you forget if you're protecting yourself or just hiding. The forest taught me to be careful. That was right. But I'm wondering if I've become too careful with people.