Early spring did not arrive with fanfare. It seeped into the valley on quiet paws: meltwater slipping under the crust of old drifts, the smell of damp earth rising through pine needles, the creek voices sharpening as ice let go. On the ridge above Libby the morning light cut the spruce tips like bright wire, and wind moved through the trees in a low conversation that made you want to listen instead of talk. Inside the cabin, a map lay open on the table, corners pinned by claws.
Kade stood over it like he was still part of the paper. He had drawn the route by memory, the lines sure, the spacing of switchbacks neat, the river crossings marked with tiny Xs and careful notes about slope and runout. He touched one place with a blunt, scarred claw. “There,” he said. “Old logging road. North of the northern camp, along Bear Pass Ridge. It’s not the fastest way, but the footing is good and the path is protected. If a storm blows up while we’re on the road, it makes sense to have somewhere solid to stay. This cabin was that place.”
Thane leaned, the table creaking under his weight. “You’ve walked it alone before?”
Kade nodded slightly. “Yeah. I used it back when I was with my old pack. I didn’t like the pack, but I liked knowing there was a safe stop in the woods.”
Thane didn’t ask anything more. He just took a calm breath, nodded once, and turned to the others. Gabriel wiped the crumbs of a bagel off his claws. “All right, I could use a hike. And you know what they say: nothing says spring like exploring abandoned forest architecture.”
Rime slapped Holt on the shoulder. “Race you to the first switchback.”
“You’re already losing,” Holt shot back, stepping toward the door with a grin.
Thane clapped his paws once, the sound snapping the morning together. “Gear up. We head up Bear Pass. We fix what needs fixing, make the shelter usable again, and stock it later if it’s solid.”
Kade folded the map and tucked it in his pack. “Lead the way,” he said, and they filed out into the fresh air and bright pine scent of a full thaw.
The world smelled like new rot—the good kind that makes mushrooms and soil. Rime loped ahead, weight on his toes, sniffing as if the day itself had a direction. Holt matched him, shoulder to shoulder, bumping, darting off to kick a drift and return like it was a game he’d invented. Gabriel stopped twice to kneel over half-lidded skunk cabbage and announce, to no one’s surprise, that it was in fact skunk cabbage. Kade traveled like he always did on ground he knew: almost invisible. You watched the trees and then discovered he had already chosen a line you were taking without thinking. Thane followed the shape of Kade’s path and found himself trusting it three steps in. The pack breathed together without trying.
“You remember everything about this road,” Thane said low as they crested a narrow stretch of ridge.
“I remember what mattered,” Kade said. “I used this trail the way some men use taverns or churches. A place that lets you breathe. That cabin was the one spot I knew no one else bothered, even my old pack. I could be alone there and not feel abandoned.”
Thane nodded. “Feels like the right kind of place to save, then.”
Gabriel came up beside them with a small huff of effort. “Quick update: I’ve fallen in love with three patches of moss and only insulted one rock. My personal growth is immense.”
Holt grinned. “His knees soft.”
By the time they reached the rise where the path dipped toward the river, snow had thinned into patchy islands in the grass. The cabin stood under a heavy-branched pine, silent but not asleep. Woodsmoke pushed a faint ribbon into the air. Someone was living here.
Thane lifted his hand, halting them. Kade’s clawed fingers curled loosely near the knife on his belt, not threatening — just aware. They moved forward slow. Footsteps creaked on the floorboards inside.
Then the door slammed open and a teenage boy rushed out, gripping a piece of split wood like a club. A little girl hid behind him, clutching a tattered stuffed doll. Behind them, half in the doorway, stood a man with a carved walking stick under one arm and one leg badly braced — rope, leather, tarp, pain.
“Get back!” the boy shouted, trembling. “We don’t want trouble!”
Kade raised his palms slowly. “Nobody’s here to hurt you. We didn’t know anyone was still using this place.”
The boy’s voice broke. “You — you’re one of them! The wolves who came before — they looked like you.”
Kade’s voice stayed even. “I was with that pack. I’m not now. I left because of what they did.”
Thane took a slow step forward, hands open, posture calm. “We’re from Libby. We’re rebuilding food stores, hunting areas, shelters like this one. We came to make sure this cabin still stands.”
The father’s eyes flickered with shock. “Last wolves came through here. Took our food. Tried to run us out. I told them to leave us be… and they broke my leg when I refused.”
Kade tensed. That grief — it wasn’t a surprise, but it still came in fresh.
Thane nodded once, jaw tight. “That wasn’t us. We run our pack on rules — honor, protection, kindness. Hurt like that doesn’t happen under us.”
The boy stared hard at Kade. “Why should we believe anything you say?”
“Because I walked away from the wolves who did this,” Kade said. “I chose different. I chose them.” He nodded to Thane and the others behind him. “You can hate what I was — you should. But judge me by where I stand now.”
That was when the little girl peeked out from behind her brother’s arm — saw Holt’s curious half-grin, saw the way Rime crouched low, eyes soft. Her fear shifted, just a little.
Thane lifted a hand toward the cabin. “Let us fix your stove and your roof. If you still want us gone afterward — we’ll go. No questions, no harm.”
The boy faltered, then looked at his father. The man took a deep breath — the kind that lets survival speak instead of pride. “Fix the stove,” he said quietly. “And the roof. We’ll go from there.”
What followed was instinct. Holt and Rime carried wood — selecting the good pieces, discarding the old season-rot. Gabriel knelt under the stovepipe, tested the collar by hand, and tightened the draw. Kade kneaded pitch into a burst seam in the chinkwork, humming under his breath. Thane climbed the roofline and reseated three loose boards, nails greased with resin to keep the water out.
During it, the girl sat quietly near the hearth. Rime sat cross-legged across from her. He pulled a small carved wolf from his pack — little more than scraps of scrap pine, sanded smooth — and offered it with a gentle smile.
“For you,” he said. “He helps watch.”
She took it like it might turn to light. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Rime nodded back. “Pack protects.”
Once the pipe was seated, Gabriel placed a two-way radio and foldable solar charger on the table. “Channel three,” he said. “That’s Libby. If anything happens — injury, raiders, food shortage — just call. We answer.”
The father blinked twice. “You’re giving this to us?”
“Yeah,” Gabriel said with a small smile. “Our support plan. No monthly fees unless you want our coffee service, which I wouldn’t recommend unless you love sudden heart attacks.”
Holt leaned in. “Do not let Rime drink it. Trust me.”
Thane looked to the man. “Libby still has a working clinic. We’ve got a doctor — real, with real tools. If you want to get that leg reset properly, we’ll send someone to bring you in once the road clears fully.”
The father froze. “You… have a doctor?”
Thane nodded with quiet certainty. “And enough medicine to do it right. You don’t owe us anything — except the courage to walk through the door.”
The man’s eyes went raw and wet without breaking. “I don’t want to be the reason my children can’t leave. I want to walk again.”
“Then come,” Thane said simply. “When you’re ready.”
They packed up without hurry. Before the wolves left, the girl set her new wooden wolf on the cabin’s windowsill, watching through the glass like an oak sentinel.
Far down the ridge, Thane finally broke the quiet. “You did good today, Pathfinder. You helped turn a memory of fear into a real shelter.”
Kade’s voice was quiet, but fuller. “I used to walk this path to stay away from people. Today, walking it with all of you — it felt like the road came back to life.”
Thane smiled a little. “Sometimes the only way to fix the world is to fix just one corner of it.”
Ahead, Gabriel sniffed the wind. “That scent? Freedom. And beans. Beans for days.”
Rime perked up. “Beans now?”
“Beans always,” Thane answered.
The valley spread out below them again — longer thaw lines, faster streams, deeper greens. Somewhere behind them, a family went to sleep with a working stove, a fresh roof, and a radio tuned to hope.
And for the first time since the Fall, they did not feel alone.