Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
The digital clock over the ticket window blinks in slow, miserable increments. I’ve got twenty-three minutes left in this purgatory before the bus arrives to haul me back to the city, to the life I tried so hard to make work. Part of me wants to stand up and run, to disappear into the darkness with nothing but my ruined pride. But I’m so tired I can barely keep my eyes open. The exhaustion sits on my shoulders like a sleeping cat, warm but immovable.
Erasmus clears his throat, the sound more cough than question. I look at him, and he’s staring straight ahead, eyes fixed on the vending machines across the room.
“You weren’t the only one,” he says, voice low enough that only I can hear. “Don’t blame yourself because he’s an old hand, Katherine. He’s done this many times, and many women fell for it. You’re not alone.”
I nod, because what else can I do? Erasmus glances at me, as if to make sure I’m hearing him, then looks away again.
A family trundles in, kids squalling, mother barking orders while the dad hauls a ton of suitcases behind him. The noise makes my skin crawl, but Erasmus seems to relax, as if the chaos is proof the world hasn’t ended after all.
The old man leans forward, elbows on his knees, and for the first time I notice his hands are shaking. “Remember what the fox means,” he says, nodding at my pocket. “Trust your gut the next time someone offers you something too good to be true. Never act out of fear or desperation. Those are traps.”
I want to laugh, but the best I can manage is a weak smile.
The PA system crackles, announcing the bus is five minutes out. Erasmus stands, his joints popping like firewood. He holds out his hand, and I take it, surprised at how warm and steady it feels.
He doesn’t hug me. He doesn’t say goodbye. He just squeezes my fingers, then pats my shoulder, as awkward and endearing as a father who’s never done this before.
Then he’s gone, out the door and into the night, swallowed by the cold and the dark and whatever secret hurts he carries.
The bus is late, but I don’t mind. I watch the empty road through the grimy glass, feeling the world slow down, my heart finally returning to something like normal speed. When the bus does arrive, I board with my head down, pay the driver with a damp ten, and slide into the farthest seat from the front.
It’s nearly midnight when the city lights appear, flickering at the edges of the highway like a fever dream. I get off at the terminal, drag my suitcase across three blocks of ice-slicked sidewalk, and climb the stairs to my apartment. The key sticks in the lock, but I force it, teeth bared, and stumble into the stale warmth of home.
It’s exactly as I left it: socks drying on the radiator, ramen wrappers in the sink, the faint scent of vanilla from the candle I used to light when I was reading. I drop my bags, collapse onto the futon, and stare at the ceiling.
The first thing I do, before I even take off my shoes, is check my phone. I scroll past a dozen spam texts and one message from Simone (Hey, hope the woods didn’t eat you!). I smile weakly at her attempt at humor, but my heart is heavy. I don’t want to reply. Not yet. Instead, I pull out the wooden fox, holding it in my palm like a talisman. Its smooth surface feels reassuring, a reminder of Erasmus’s words.
I reach for my laptop, opening it to the familiar, cluttered desktop. The cursor blinks expectantly, and I take a deep breath, trying to gather my thoughts. I should write, should pour out my feelings onto the page, but the words feel stuck, like they’re trapped behind the pain of recent events.
After a long moment, I pull up a fresh document and type a title: “Lessons from the Woods.” The words come slowly at first.
“Trust your instincts.”
The phrase echoes in my mind as I write, the memory of Erasmus’s voice urging me to listen to the whispers of my heart. I type about the allure of Talon, the way he made me feel like I was the only woman in the world, how easily he pulled me into his web of charm and deception.
“I thought I could be special.”
But I know now that I was just one of many, that his charm often masked a darker truth. The pain resurfaces, but I push through it. This is my catharsis. I need to reclaim my narrative, to rewrite my story.
“He uses the women up, like candles burned down to the wick. Then they vanish.”
Just like me, I think bitterly. I’ve vanished from the cabin, but I can’t let Talon’s betrayal define me. I type faster now, the rhythm of the keys matching the thrum of my heart. I write about rediscovering who I am beyond the façade I built for him.