I climbed the hill with numb legs and an empty stomach.
The air smelled of damp soil and broken branches.
With every step, I moved farther from the village, from its whispers, its judgment, from the humiliation of being free only to realize no one was waiting for me.
The cave appeared behind a cluster of prickly pear cacti and tall stones, like a wound carved into the mountain.
Dark.
Silent.
Cold.
I stood outside it for a few seconds.
The stray dog had stayed below, refusing to climb.
That should have meant something.
But when you have nothing left, exhaustion can silence fear.
Between.
Inside, the air smelled of moisture and time frozen in place.
There was old dust, a few dry branches carried in by the wind, and a corner that seemed sheltered from the rain.
I set my bag on the ground.
I wrapped my arms around myself.
I closed my eyes.
For the first time since leaving prison, I had something close to shelter.
It wasn’t a home.
But it was a place to vanish.
I gathered small stones and branches to build a fire.
As I shifted a flat rock near the wall, I heard a different sound.
Not the sharp scrape of stone against stone.
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