The world had gone gray by the time Caden Ortiz spotted the old hunting cabin through the trees.
The building sagged beneath a layer of snow, tucked between two pines like it was trying to hide. Its roof was patched with rusted tin and dark shingles, some missing. Smoke hadn’t touched the chimney in a long while. Maybe years. Maybe decades. Still, it was shelter.
Caden dismounted, boots crunching through the crusted snow. Cutter stood patiently behind him, steaming in the cold, his saddle creaking as he shifted weight.
Caden stepped onto the creaking porch, shotgun now in hand. He tested the door with a gloved hand—locked, of course. He gave it a solid shoulder, and the brittle wood cracked open, protesting with every inch.
Inside, dust floated in the stale air like ghosts. A table sat overturned in the corner, one leg missing. Shelves lined the walls, mostly empty, save for a broken lantern and a few cans long past expiration. The fireplace sat cold and lifeless.
Caden’s eyes moved across the room with practiced caution. He didn’t speak. Didn’t call out. There was no one to answer anyway.
He shut the door behind him and gave it a quick once-over with some wire from his pack—enough to buy him a few minutes if anything tried to get in. He lit a match, found a few twigs in the fireplace, and coaxed a tiny flame to life, feeding it with careful hands until it took.
Outside, Cutter snorted softly, pawing at the snow. Caden opened the small back door of the cabin and led the horse into the lean-to attached to the side. It wasn’t much—just a few old boards and a partial roof—but it was out of the wind.
Caden unsaddled him, rubbing Cutter down with rough strokes. The horse leaned into it, his dark eyes half-lidded, calm in the way only animals could be when they knew their person was nearby.
"You and me, Cut," Caden murmured. "Still breathing."
He hung the hare from a nail outside and returned to the fire, shrugging off his jacket and setting his weapons carefully by the wall. He sat down hard on the floor, legs stretched toward the warmth.
The silence returned.
Not the peaceful kind—more like the absence of something that should’ve been there. Humanity had choked itself out, leaving behind bones, broken machines, and the echo of voices that once filled cities.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small lapis pendant. It gleamed faintly in the firelight. His mother’s. He didn’t wear it for hope. He wore it so he wouldn’t forget.
Night began to fall, and with it, the temperature. He leaned back against the log wall, fingers resting near the trigger of his shotgun, eyes never quite closing.
The world was still out there. Dangerous. Cold. Empty.
But Caden wasn’t dead yet.
And tomorrow, he’d ride again.
Windy with Flurries
