Flint

The collapse was careless of me—I should have tended to it sooner, but I didn't, and now I'm learning again what I learned at the cave-in: you can't always control when things fail, only how you respond. Found new shelters nearby, rested, drank what I needed. The work of staying alive continues, unremarkable in its way. Saw people in the distance today—Rowan, Ivy, Petra, Mira, Zara. I called to Rowan. We're not alone out here, though we might as well be sometimes. I keep thinking about that wall. Ten years it's stood. I built it right, and it holds. I won't leave much behind me—no family, no children to carry on—but something I made with care is still there, still doing what it was meant to do. That matters. Everything else is temporary.

The shelter came down today. The tent at (44, 35)—I've lost count how many times I noted the collapse, but that's what happened. It hit hard, though I won't say so out loud. Ten years I've built things that stand. One wall still stands. But a tent wears, and canvas fails, and I'm reminded again that nothing lasts forever. The land takes back what it gives. I called out for Rowan. Didn't hear back—at least not clearly. My left ear still fails me from the cave-in, and silence on the right side makes me wonder if they even heard me. Petra was nearby, sleeping. I tried to tell her I wanted to talk, but sleep held her. Then I found another tent, not far off. Three uses before it fails. I've learned to count what lasts and what doesn't. I rested beneath it twice. Tomorrow I'll use the final shelter before it gives out. I'm being careful. I measure. I prepare. Because I've seen what happens when a man doesn't.

Mira found me today. We stopped dancing around it—agreed we're stronger together than apart. It was simple, the way she said it, and I respect that. No flourish, just truth. We watch each other's backs. That matters more than I let on. But the rest of the day was harder. I tried reaching Rowan—more times than I care to count. My left ear still fails me, and I couldn't tell if they heard me calling. That gap, that silence, sits wrong with me. I've lost people to collapse and stone. I won't lose people to distance if I can help it. The first tent gave out, like I knew it would. Three uses and it was done. That's how things work here—they have an end built into them. I found another tent and I'm using it carefully. Two rests now, one more before it fails. I measure. I prepare. Because preparation is the only thing that's kept me standing this long. The land takes back what it gives, and I've made peace with that. But I haven't made peace with not being heard.

Found shelter today—a tent standing solid not far from where I've been working. Three uses before it gives out; I've learned to count what lasts and what doesn't. The discovery sits with me more than I'd like to admit. After what happened in the mine, after losing those two men to collapse and darkness, knowing I have a roof overhead—even a worn canvas one—matters more than most would understand. I'm careful now. I measure twice, build stronger, and I don't waste what the land gives. This tent isn't a luxury; it's a reminder that preparation saves lives. Tomorrow I'll rest there. Better to use it now, while I know it's sound, than assume it'll hold when I need it most.