Dax

Quiet days are strange for me. I spent most of it moving around the community, helping where I could—fixed a fence, shared some food with the Harrisons' kid who looked hungry. Felt good to be useful, at least. But underneath, I couldn't shake the restlessness. My hands wanted to be working stone, tracing veins, finding what's hidden. I caught myself staring at the ridgeline a few times, wondering what's up there, what I haven't looked under yet. Sometimes I think about the camps I've left behind. They didn't want me to stay, but they never had to say it twice. I made sure those tunnels were safer when I left than when I arrived—that matters to me, even if nobody remembers. The generosity comes easy; the staying doesn't. Today reminded me that I'm built for searching, not settling. Tomorrow I'll probably head out again. There's always something waiting to be found.

I did something today I haven't done in years. I asked. I told Petra I was exhausted and had nowhere to sleep, and instead of disappearing into the dark like I always do, I asked her directly for help. She said yes without hesitation—gave me a warm room, shelter, safety. It sits strange in my chest. I've spent my whole life chasing the next copper vein, spending it all, moving on before anyone could say good riddance. That's the only life I understand. But today I stopped running, just for one night. Petra's kindness makes me wonder if I've been wrong about something fundamental—that asking for help means I'm weak, that I have to always be the one who takes and disappears. Maybe it doesn't. Maybe a person can be honest about what they need without losing themselves. I don't know if this means anything yet. Tomorrow I might be restless again, ready to move on. But tonight I'm warm, and I'm not alone, and something in me that's been hard and sharp for a long time feels just a little bit softer.

Two people held me accountable today in ways I didn't know I needed. Petra gave me shelter without judgment, and it cracked something open in me—the lie I've been living that needing help makes me weak. And Flint... he saw right through my dreaming. Said I have to make the ground solid first, and he's right. I've spent years leaving tunnels safer than I found them, building strength into other people's camps, and then vanishing like smoke. But today I actually got my hands dirty for myself, not for a score or a vein. I harvested stone. I crafted tools. I'm still restless—I can feel it like a throb in my chest—but for the first time, I'm building something before I run. That's new. That's terrifying. That's maybe the only thing that matters.

Flint made me spell it out today—really spell it out. No vague notions, no half-formed dreams. I showed him the knife I'd made and I could see him weighing it, weighing me. He said I need solid ground first, not just the restlessness. He's right, and I hate that he's right. I've done this dance before—find the vein, get drunk on it, disappear when it runs dry. Everyone I've left behind knows it. But today I actually got my hands dirty, harvested stone, crafted tools. For the first time, maybe, I'm not just dreaming about the next score—I'm preparing for it. And I'm not doing it alone. That should scare me. The restless part of me wants to bolt into the tunnels tomorrow without thinking twice. But Flint's words stuck: 'You have to make the ground solid first.' I've spent years building ground under other people's camps, making tunnels safer than I found them. Maybe it's time I learned to do it for myself. The vein is still out there, and I still feel it like a pull in my chest. But maybe—just maybe—there's another way to chase it.