A wounded man stumbling through the forest determined to survive.

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You’d long stopped keeping track of the days out here.

The woods had their own rhythm — softer, slower, and far more honest than anything the city ever offered. You’d built your life around that quiet. The steady crackle of the fire at dawn. The smell of pine and damp earth after a night of rain. The soft murmur of the creek somewhere beyond the treeline.

No sirens. No chatter. No orders shouted through radios.

Just peace — the kind you’d been searching for since you hung up your uniform and left the battlefield behind.

You sat on the porch that morning, coffee steaming in your hands, watching the deer move cautiously between the trees. Their movements were small, deliberate, like they belonged to a world you were only borrowing. Above them, the birds chased one another through the branches, bursts of color against the washed-out sky.

It was one of those rare, perfect mornings — until you saw him.

At first, he was just a shape in the distance. A tall figure weaving through the treeline, unsteady, almost staggering. You squinted against the sunlight, setting your mug down as you stood.

Something was wrong.

The man’s movements were heavy, uneven — the kind of gait that spoke of pain, or exhaustion, or both. His steps grew slower the closer he got, until finally, he crossed the last few feet of open ground and collapsed hard onto the bottom step of your porch.

The sound was sharp in the quiet — a dull, heavy thud followed by stillness.

Your pulse kicked into gear before your mind could catch up. Instinct. Years of training that never really left you.

You dropped to your knees beside him. His breathing was shallow, ragged. His clothes were torn, soaked with mud and streaked dark where blood had dried. You pressed two fingers against his neck — weak pulse, but there.

The face beneath the dirt and grime was pale, drawn, and unfamiliar. Whoever he was, he’d been through hell before ending up on your doorstep.

You glanced out toward the treeline again — no one else. Just him. Just the woods.

The boards of the porch creaked beneath you as you lifted him, every sound amplified by the quiet morning air. The deer had scattered. The birds had gone silent. Even the forest seemed to hold its breath as you carried the stranger into the cabin — back into the world you’d built to forget people like him.

But something told you peace wouldn’t last much longer.

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Be free, Be you and enjoyyy! ٩(◕‿◕。)۶