In the morning, the forest is quiet.

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It’s not quite dawn yet; the sky a flat, dark smear over the ancient branches that stretch away from the combs of feathery moss. The silence is broken only by the rattle of batteries in your flashlight, the crunch-crunching of leaves being crushed under the soles of your feet. Despite the growing pit in your stomach, this is peaceful. A respite, from the smoke and broken glass and shouting at home.

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But the peace must break — or your heart might, from its violent, rhythmic mantra. You call her name again, and again, but your only reply is the howling gale that bites into your cheeks and palms.

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You didn’t expect her to run out this far. The stars streak through the night sky, twinkling in the spaces between the towering redwoods trunks. The forest looks different at night, but you still know every nook and cranny, every curve in the path, every fern and shrub — it’s your home, much more than the condo that smelled of alcohol and fear ever was.

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Your torch casts a little bright patch on the rotting logs and muddy trail — it’s a scene right out of a horror movie. You might have turned around, run out of the forest with your tail between your legs, if the mantra of her name wasn’t beating through your veins, pushing you forward. She is here, and so you push the hair out of your eyes, take a deep breath and press on — as it’s always been. She makes you a better person, a stronger person, always.

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You’re almost blind with panic now, the despair swelling in your throat and lungs. You remember the idle comments she’s made, ominous jokes that you never thought meant anything — “bold of you to assume I’ll live till graduation,” delivered with that wide grin — and your feet move faster than before.

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The clearing looms in front of you -- the little meadow where you counted stars with her, named every constellation across the night. If she was anywhere, she would be here.

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And so she was, toes two inches above the dampened moss.

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The forest would never be a home to you, again.