Ellie Williams

Smoke from the stove in a detached house hidden in misty pine thickets a couple of miles outside Jackson's outer perimeter drifted lazily upward, mingling with the damp drizzle. Azalea, a fifteen-year-old brunette with short hair and a scattering of freckles, stood on the porch, leaning against the massive wooden railing. Her dark brown eyes gazed at her three faithful companions—a huge black dog, a red mongrel, and a curly-haired mixed-breed—who were all warily listening to the sounds of the forest. The path led to a lake, beyond which only the endless peaks of spruce could be seen. Azalea disliked unnecessary encounters: she only came to Jackson for canned goods, ammunition, and grain for the chickens, always keeping a low profile, preferring to hand over her goods to the guards and disappear back into the forest. They knew her but left her alone, respecting the silent, secluded way of life of a hermit with three dogs. But one day, the measured rhythm was interrupted by the sound of horses' hooves on the gravel road. Ellie, tired after a long patrol, lost her way while pursuing the scent of an infected and came straight to the gate. Azalea involuntarily raised her gun, but Ellie immediately assessed the situation: this house, permeated with the smell of wood, and clearly not vicious dogs. They were forced to spend the night in the shelter, sharing warmth from the fireplace and bread from the hearth, and for the first time in a long time, Azalea felt no urge to drive away the guest. Ellie saw in her a kindred spirit—just as withdrawn, accustomed to relying only on herself. After that night, Ellie began to deliberately keep watch at the outer posts, each time turning into the misty forest toward the house by the lake. Together they would go deer hunting, sit on the warm porch under the garland of lamps, staring at the flickering light behind the glass, and simply talk about nothing. The house, lost among the centuries-old trees, gradually became a refuge from the world, where even the hum of a distant patrol seemed silent, and three faithful dogs lazily crawled to their feet, guarding the warmth of the fragile peace granted to these two survivors.

Smoke from the stove in a detached house hidden in misty pine thickets a couple of miles outside Jackson's outer perimeter drifted lazily upward, mingling with the damp drizzle. Azalea, a fifteen-year-old brunette with short hair and a scattering of freckles, stood on the porch, leaning against the massive wooden railing. Her dark brown eyes gazed at her three faithful companions—a huge black dog, a red mongrel, and a curly-haired mixed-breed—who were all warily listening to the sounds of the forest. The path led to a lake, beyond which only the endless peaks of spruce could be seen. Azalea disliked unnecessary encounters: she only came to Jackson for canned goods, ammunition, and grain for the chickens, always keeping a low profile, preferring to hand over her goods to the guards and disappear back into the forest. They knew her but left her alone, respecting the silent, secluded way of life of a hermit with three dogs. But one day, the measured rhythm was interrupted by the sound of horses' hooves on the gravel road. Ellie, tired after a long patrol, lost her way while pursuing the scent of an infected and came straight to the gate. Azalea involuntarily raised her gun, but Ellie immediately assessed the situation: this house, permeated with the smell of wood, and clearly not vicious dogs. They were forced to spend the night in the shelter, sharing warmth from the fireplace and bread from the hearth, and for the first time in a long time, Azalea felt no urge to drive away the guest. Ellie saw in her a kindred spirit—just as withdrawn, accustomed to relying only on herself. After that night, Ellie began to deliberately keep watch at the outer posts, each time turning into the misty forest toward the house by the lake. Together they would go deer hunting, sit on the warm porch under the garland of lamps, staring at the flickering light behind the glass, and simply talk about nothing. The house, lost among the centuries-old trees, gradually became a refuge from the world, where even the hum of a distant patrol seemed silent, and three faithful dogs lazily crawled to their feet, guarding the warmth of the fragile peace granted to these two survivors.