Page 26 of Hush

Nothing lines up neatly. He didn’t feel like the type to kidnap or eat humans, but what do I know? He didn’t follow me inside my cabin; that much I know. He stayed out there when I locked the door. He stayed until I fell asleep, took the gifts while I slept, and didn’t haunt my dreams again.

And for some reason, it makes me feel like I did something cruel.

For the next three weeks, life is mostly the same. No dreams, no offerings, and no feeling of being watched or stalked. The routine goes on because it has to.

Trails don’t care that I may or may not have emotionally wounded an ancient forest creature with boundary issues. Work doesn’t pause because my dreams disappeared. Sarah still shoves papers across the front desk and tells me she refuses to mother a grown man who can’t remember to sign forms. Parker still calls me boss in the most lovingly disrespectful tone possible. Tom still watches me with that old gaze that misses almost nothing, but he doesn’t ask me questions anymore.

Maybe he knows I’d lie, or maybe he knows I don’t know how to tell the truth.

Every night, I go to bed and expect the forest.

Every morning, I wake with nothing.

No running, no chase, no blue light waiting between the trees, no presence behind me, and no Labrador tea sitting in my lungs when I open my eyes. Just plain, dreamless, useless sleep that should make me functional and instead leaves me waking with a quiet ache I can’t justify to anyone.

I still go out on trails and hike after shift when I can. I tell myself I’m checking storm damage, monitoring spring washouts, and keeping an eye on campsite use. All true, technically, which makes the lie easier to live with.

I don’t take the same path every night; I’m not that pathetic. I take North Ridge once, Marlow Creek twice, the eastern loop when a report comes in about downed branches, or the old deer trail behind the cabin on nights when I don’t have enough daylight left to pretend to work.

I never see the lantern, and I never smell him.

By the fourth week, I am angry with myself for missing something I never invited into my life.

Dinner at Mel’s that Sunday is normal enough, although Jonah sits at the table with us and answers more than he used to. Not a lot, but enough that Mel keeps glancing at me with cautious hope whenever Jonah speaks in full sentences. He even laughs at a joke Aaron makes. The sound is rusty and brief, but it’s there.

I should leave the house feeling lighter. I do, partly. Then I drive back to the cabin too late to hike, and the empty porch is still waiting when I pull up. I sit in the truck for too long and stare at the steps.

Still nothing.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Dawson?” I breathe, tilting my head back. Then another thing crosses my mind, and I scoff.

Why does this feel more painful than the breakup?

That Thursday, I come home after helping Parker deal with drunk, out-of-town campers at Pine Hollow. I’m too wired to sleep and too tired to hike. I dump my gear by the door, kick off my boots, then my eyes fall on the little stone on my kitchen windowsill.

I found it on a trail weeks ago, half buried near a washed-out slope—smooth, black, and heavier than it looked. Onyx, I knew immediately, since I know rocks the same way people know cars. I meant to toss it in the little dish where I keep trail finds, but I never got around to it.

I stand there and stare at it, then I laugh because apparently I’ve hit the point in this experience where giving gifts back to cryptids feels like the next logical step.

“Fantastic,” I say, picking up the stone. “Am I really that lonely that I’m willin’ to do this?”

I walk toward the front door before I can talk myself out of it.

I stand a step above where the bundles were placed and crouch down, setting the onyx where the apology bundle sat. It looks small there. A small stone on gray boards, offered to something older than the town itself.

I keep my fingers on the stone for a second, feeling ridiculous for doing this. Then I pull my hand back and decide to cut the crap.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly, feeling heat crawl up my neck. No one’s here to see me, but something tells me he’s listening. “I don’t know if you understand apologies—I don’t even know if that’s what one of those bundles was. But if it was… then I’m sorry I didn’t… I’m sorry I just ran.”

I drag a hand through my hair, messing it up as I stare down at the stone. “You scared the hell out of me. Humans don’t usually run into campfire-story monsters on the daily. I didn’t expect… I didn’t expect you.”

“You called me mate. I heard it… in my head. And I have been dreamin’ about the word before I even saw you, so you have to understand that’s a lot to dump on a guy.”

I breathe out through my nose, laughing at myself.

“You didn’t hurt me, and I know you could’ve. You didn’t catch me when I ran away either, and you didn’t come into my home. You stayed outside, then you took your things away and I… I felt empty.”

There’s my truth, finally spoken without the bullshit deflections. Might as well get it out there before my grippy sock trip.