Phoenix Maplewood all those empty rooms

the maplewood is quiet in that winter way, sound swallowed by bark and old snow.

sega moves its edge with practiced ease, pale against the trees, when the scent reaches him. salt. long travel. hunger worn thin. not great sky.

he stops, lifts his head.

the stranger is there, halfshadowed between trunks. not charging. not hiding well either. just… worn.

sega does not bare his teeth.

he steps into view, posture tall but not pressing.

easy, sega says gently, broken common softened further. you not chased.

his gaze moves once over the man. the ache in the shoulders. the way hunger sits close to the bone.

you far from sea, he adds, quieter now. that long walk.