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Not just a stalker.

Not just a watcher.

It’s more.

The wind shifts, threading through skies with a sigh—low, almost intimate.

A whisper of movement flashes just beyond the limits of my sight.

It weaves through the bare branches like a voice just out of reach, a presence pressing against the edges of my senses.

I go still, my breath slow, controlled.

The air has weight now.

Thick. Heavy.

I feel stretched thin. This thing keeps pressing down on me with merciless intent.

Time.

That is what I’m feeling. Time marching by.

And I am running out of it.

A ruthless, unseen force bearing down on me like a hunter looming over its prey, a predator toying with the inevitable.

The Rut is coming.

The thought sent a dark, primal heat through my veins, twisting with something ugly and desperate.

A warning. A curse. A reminder.

And then came the memories.

They didn’t creep in like ghosts—they crashed into me, sharp and relentless, dragging me under.

My stepfather’s hard, unforgiving gaze.

The crisp snap of a hundred-dollar bill as he shoved it into my palm. The weight of the suitcase in my hand, its handle biting into my fingers.

“We don’t need no freaks here, boy.”

His voice, rough as gravel. Disgust curling his lip.

“You just go on now. And stay gone.”

My mother, standing beside him, tears streaming down her face.

Silent. Helpless.

She didn’t stop him.

Didn’t fight for me.

And I had been too damn proud to beg.

I left.