The Forest Had Gone Quiet

By Peter Bowden

The fire was low now, burning down to a soft red core. He stirred it with a stick, spreading the coals, watching the last flames flicker and sigh. Around him, the forest had gone quiet, the kind of quiet that sinks deep, into bones and memory. He cleaned the skillet with a handful of pine needles and sand, then rinsed it with river water gone silver in the moonlight. Each motion was slow, deliberate. Like a ritual. Like closing a book you’ve read too many times to forget.

The tent was small, canvas, and smelled of old smoke and dry grass. He laid out the bedroll, creased from years of folding. Pulled the wool blanket over it, tested the zipper on the flap. The stars were brighter now, sharp and cold. He poured the last of the whiskey into his cup, sipped it while the air wrapped around him like a second coat. Owls called somewhere out in the trees, distant and low, like voices in a dream.

When he was ready, he banked the fire to keep it warm through the night. Then he slipped into the tent, boots just outside, hands rough and still smelling faintly of fish and pine. He lay down and pulled the blanket up to his chest. The earth was hard but honest. The night was full but kind. And as sleep came, slow and quiet, he thought—not with words, but with a feeling—that the world was good, and that it had let him belong for one more day.

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