The air inside the house was warm -- too warm. It wrapped around Nikolai like a damp blanket, heavy with
the scent of boiled roots and old wood. The walls were lined with shelves and faded photographs, the furniture
neat and well-kept, but nothing looked *lived in*. No dust, no clutter. No signs of life. Just a hollow
perfection.
She turned her head slightly and said, "Why don't you sit? Let me take a look at that wound."
Nikolai finally looked at her and gave a slight nod. He stepped inside.
She pulled out a wooden chair near the hearth and gestured.
Then she moved toward a side cabinet, opened it, and retrieved a shallow bowl and a clean cloth. She filled the
bowl with water from a kettle resting beside the fire, steam curling softly into the room.
Returning to him, she knelt with the items in hand. Her movements were careful, precise -- almost practiced.
She dabbed at the blood gently. Too gently.
"You're lucky," she murmured, "It didn't go deeper."
He didn't respond. His eyes moved past her -- to the knives hung above the stove. Not kitchen knives. Long,
thin, curved. Clean.
Something about the room still felt wrong. Like everything had been staged. Like he'd walked into a memory-- not a home.
And the air buzzed faintly, beneath it all. A sound just on the edge of hearing.
She finished wrapping the cloth around his side and rose to her feet.
"There you go," she said.
Nikolai gave her a small nod. "Thank you."
She moved back toward the makeshift stove, lifted the lid of the pot, and stirred. The scent of root vegetables
and bone broth deepened.
"Hungry?" she asked over her shoulder.
He hesitated. Then: "Yeah."
She picked up a battered ladle, poured a portion into a wooden bowl, and set it on the table in front of him.
Nikolai leaned forward. The steam curled into his face, bringing the scent with it -- earthy, oily, meaty. He
looked into the bowl.
His breath caught.
Floating among the chunks of root and slivers of fat were three pale fingers. Human. One had a faint pink nail
still clinging to it.
He didn't speak. Didn't flinch. Didn't move.
He looked up.
The woman was staring at him intently.
He forced himself to breathe. Forced his face to go still.
He picked up the spoon. His hand didn't shake.
He stirred the soup once. Twice.
Then he brought it to his mouth and drank.
It was thick. Metallic.
He swallowed without blinking.
She watched him for a moment longer, then turned back toward the stove.
"You can sleep in the back room," she said. "It's warmer there. And quiet."
Nikolai nodded slowly, as if the gesture belonged to someone else. His eyes lingered on the fingers still
floating in the broth. He pushed the bowl away, careful not to make a sound.
He'd eaten worse. Probably. And starving wasn't the worst way to die.
"Thanks," he said, standing. His legs were shaky, his mind racing.
She didn't respond. She was humming a tone.
Nikolai walked into the hall. It was dim, the firelight behind him barely reaching the far wall. The floor
creaked under his boots.
He passed a door on his left. The frame was marked -- deep scratches like something had clawed at it.
The back room wasn't warm like she said. It was cold and empty. Just a cot, a folded blanket, and four walls.
No window. No light.
He stepped inside. Closed the door behind him.
He walked over to the cot and sat down slowly, the knife still in his hand. His back pressed against the wall.
Every muscle ached..
He deserved the rest -- even if it wouldn't last long.