You leave the ledger. You leave the bundle. You run.

Not crashing—running the messenger way, the way you do when the mill needs a spare cog from the far hamlet and the rain is already thinking about it. Mira keeps up, because Mira keeps up with everything except her father’s fear.

Elderwood receives you with leaf-mould and cold water. The path toward the hollow used to be a deer trail. Now a new fence cuts the valley like a sentence that forgot its ending. Posts, wire, a farmer’s honest wish to keep sheep in and trouble out.

On the near side, slot prints pile up, confused. On the far side, the ferns are empty of that particular story.

You slow because your lungs ask, and because the fence is a fact you can touch. Habitat, Thorn would say, is not “trees somewhere.” Habitat is connected trees, water, cover. A fence can turn a wide wood into a postage stamp.

Mira touches a wire. It hums a little in the wind. “Cole paid for part of this. To keep mill-pasture from wandering.”

The hollow is still ahead, roots and quiet rules.