Page 23 of Mate Night Snack
She’d grown up in places where the silence meant safety. Where the worst thing lurking was a lie someone was too ashamed to say out loud. But Hollow Oak had layers she couldn’t peel away, and every time she got close to something solid, it twisted just enough to make her doubt her grip.
She turned away from the window and picked up her notebook. Flipping to a fresh page, she started writing:
Vision 3 – Night / Forest / Emmett
The details were sharper now.
This time, the blood wasn’t on the floorboards of the inn. It soaked into soil. Pine needles. Moss. His body was slumpedagainst a tree, hand pressed to his ribs. Breathing shallow. Eyes wide and wild—not from pain, but from recognition. Like he’d seen something he thought was long gone.
She didn’t see the attacker. But she heard growling. Not human. Not quite animal, either.
She chewed the end of her pen and stared at the page until the ink bled through.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Miriam:Dinner’s downstairs if you’re hungry. Chicken pot pie and blackberry crumble.
She smiled faintly. Miriam cooked like she ran a spell shop on the side, which, honestly, wouldn’t even surprise her anymore.
Still barefoot, she padded into the hallway and down the old wooden stairs. The smell hit her halfway down: butter, thyme, warm berries, and something earthier. Like rosemary roasted in a cast iron pan.
Miriam looked up from the stove as she entered. “You’re late. I almost started reading your eulogy.”
“Got caught up in edits,” Katniss said, sliding into a chair at the long kitchen table. “Still deciding if I’m the unreliable narrator.”
“Dinner’s in the oven,” Miriam said, turning back to the pot. “Help yourself.”
She stood and moved toward the counter, glancing once toward the back window. The light caught the edge of the garden. Something moved beyond it—tall, lean, quiet.
Emmett.
She paused, hand hovering over the pie dish. “Is he always patrolling?” she asked without looking back.
Miriam made a soft noise. “He’s always watching.”
Katniss served herself a slice and brought it back to the table, picking at the crust while her thoughts churned.
“I think something’s coming,” she said softly.
Miriam didn’t answer right away. Just turned off the burner and set her spoon down.
“Then it’s good you’re here,” she said at last.
Katniss blinked. “I didn’t say it was something I could stop.”
“No,” Miriam replied, pouring two glasses of cider. “But maybe you’ll see it coming. And maybe that’s enough.”
Later that night, Katniss curled beneath the quilt and stared at the ceiling.
Her thoughts refused to quiet.
That vision had been too vivid. She could still feel the chill in the dirt. The way the bark scraped under her palms as she reached for him.
It had felt real. Too real.
She turned onto her side, eyes drifting toward the window again. Somewhere out there, Emmett was moving through the trees with that slow, careful stride of his. Every step measured. Every sense sharp.
He didn’t talk much, but his actions spoke louder than anyone else she’d ever met.
When she stumbled, he caught her. When she questioned everything, he didn’t push—just anchored her quietly until she could steady herself.
