The knock came like a question without hope.
Soft, unsure, but steady, as if the hand outside had promised itself it would try three times before giving up on the world completely.
Garrett Boon didn’t move at first. He sat near the hearth, his broad shoulders hunched toward the fire as though he could bargain with it for warmth. The cabin smelled of pine resin, smoke, and iron. In his left hand, he held a whetstone. In his right, a hunting knife he’d sharpened so often the blade had become a kind of confession: the only thing in this place that ever stayed bright.
The second knock came, weaker than the first.
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