Page 159 of The Devil May Care

The world here is so quiet it makes me ache.

The cabin door creaks shut behind me. Inside, it’s warm. Light filters through the windows in soft, late-afternoon gold. A kettle whistles on the stove. There’s a woven blanket draped over a worn couch. A fire crackles, gentle and familiar. It still smells like pine needles and something sweet, something safe. Like cinnamon toast and fresh whipped cream.

I move like I’ve done it a hundred times. Walk to the stove. Pour tea into a ceramic mug I swear I’ve never seen before, but it feels like mine. I wrap my hands around it, the heat blooming against my skin, grounding me. Comforting me. On the coffee table is a book. One I’ve read before, or maybe one I’ve always meant to. The cover is smooth beneath my fingers. I sink into the couch and pull the fuzzy blanket over my lap.

The moment I crack the spine, I— what was I doing again?

Something important.

Something about a trial?

I frown. A forest, maybe? I remember stepping through fire, but thatseems like someone else’s story now, someone else’s life. Like a book I put down mid-chapter and never picked up again. I take a sip of tea. It’s sweet, a hint of bitter lemon, and exactly how I like it. Everything here is just right.

And yet—something tugs at the edge of me. An itch I cannot scratch. A pressure building behind my eyes. The pendant is warm against the skin of my chest.

Pendant.

What pendant? Why is it warm?

I close the book and lean back on the couch, staring at the ceiling. The quiet presses in around me. Familiar. Too familiar.

You’ve earned this.

You could stay.

You deserve peace. After everything.

The cup in my hands is full of something sweet and steaming. The blanket over my legs is just heavy enough to make me feel grounded. And the sun has landed in the exact spot behind my shoulders to make me feel held. This is peace. Undeniably.

I should be suspicious. I know that. I’ve read enough books, walked through enough illusions to understand that things this good are never free. But my body has stopped bracing for impact. My jaw is no longer clenched. My ribs don’t feel like a cage anymore.

I could stay.

Just… stop.

No more trials. No more tests. I’ve earned this.

I curl my fingers tighter around the cup.

What would be so wrong with choosing rest? Haven’t I given enough?

Another thought. Sharper. Meaner.

Why do other people get to live soft lives while I had to break just to survive?

My breath catches.

Why did my parents die in a wreck on a stupid road trip, and some other family got to keep theirs?

Why did my foster parents leave me behind every time they went to out of town?

My heart slams once, then again.

Why am I the one on shift every Christmas? Every Fourth of July? Why dothe couples at the clinic get holidays off while I’m scrubbing blood off the floor at midnight?

I set the cup down too hard. It sloshes but doesn’t spill.

It’s not my fault I’m here? Why do they all look at me like I chose this?