The tires softly crunch under the Jeep as Rick follows my instructions along the frost-laden path. Overgrown brush and snow cling to the road's edges, and my breath fogs the cold window. My hands, tightly clenched in my lap, ache from the chill seeping through my gloves. I only notice I'm holding my breath when Rick glances over.

His voice is unusually gentle. "Still sure about this?"

I nod, throat tight. The cabin feels impossibly close, yet so far away. I point ahead where the path narrows. "Take the left. It'll open near the treeline."

The Jeep rolls forward, the RV and truck trailing close behind. No one speaks. I brace for disappointment—for damage, for something broken. But then, through the trees, I see it.

The cabin.

It looks the same.

Solar panels cover the roof, and sunlight glints off them as always. The cabin itself is weathered but whole. Frost hugs the windows, and vines curl along the porch. I release a breath I didn't realize I was holding, and a quiet sob escapes my lips.

Rick slows the Jeep, his hand brushing mine gently. "Darling?"

I push the car door open, boots crunching over the snow as I step onto the path. My chest tightens, breath catching as my vision blurs for a heartbeat. My pulse stutters, torn between the sharp ache of disbelief and the overwhelming release of tension that feels like a knot unravelling deep inside me. My fingers flex at my sides, half-expecting the image to shatter like a fragile illusion—but it doesn't. It's real. My feet carry me to the porch, the familiar creak of wood underfoot sending another wave of emotion surging through me. The spare key—tucked beneath the hollowed knot of the old birch tree—is still there. My fingers shake as I slide it into the lock and twist. The door opens with the same quiet groan I remember.

Inside, it's dusty. Cold. But it's ours.

The stone fireplace remains unchanged. The old quilt draped over the couch is still familiar. Winter clothes sit neatly folded on the bench. Family photos rest on the mantel, blurred beneath the dust, yet still whole. The ache in my chest unravels, and before I can stop it, tears flow silently, hot against my cold cheeks. I press a hand to my chest, steadying my breath as the group filters inside quietly. Rick stays close, grounding me.

The others drifted through the cabin or explored outside, but Rick stayed. We stood by the fireplace, the quiet hum filling the gaps between words. His hand found mine, his fingers lacing gently. The warmth of his touch ground me against the cold ache still twisting in my chest.

"You did this," he murmured, voice rough but gentle. "You kept us going. Brought us here."

I shook my head, blinking hard to get rid of the tears. "I just remembered the way."

Rick's eyes softened, and his thumb brushed my wet cheek. "No. You gave us hope when we were losing it. You gave me hope."

The ache twisted sharper momentarily, then eased as I leaned into him, pressing my forehead against his shoulder. His arms wrapped around me, holding me steady, safe.

"It's perfect," Carol calls out, voice thick as she stands near the stairs, Sophia clutching her side.

I nod, wiping my face. "The generator should still work. The solar panels charge the batteries for nighttime use. There are extra batteries upstairs we can swap when needed. The rain tanks—they're hidden and insulated. They're more than enough to get us through winter."

T-Dog's voice rises from the kitchen. "There's food here—canned stuff. Not fresh, but it'll last."

I swallow hard, nodding again. "There are four bedrooms upstairs. A bathroom. An office, too. Plenty of space for us all."

Daryl stands by the window, gazing at the dense woods beyond. "It seems like no one has visited this place in ages."

I meet his gaze. "It's remote enough. No one would find it unless they knew where to look."

Rick turns to the group, his voice quieter but steady. "This is it. We can make this work. When the weather breaks, reinforce the perimeter to make it safer. But we're done running. We've made it."

So, it's finished! It's not quite how I wanted it to go, but I want to be done with it at this stage. It has been years since I started, and it needs to be put to bed. I hope it was still good enough for some entertainment. Thank you again for reading, I appreciate it. 3