The First Runner

Looks like I'm stuck here

This has been updated and rewritten

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I woke the next morning to a low, metallic groaning that rattled through the floorboards. It took me a second to register it wasn't part of a dream. I sat up slowly, blinking against the dim morning light that crept in through the gaps in the wooden slats of the walls. My body ached from sleeping on the too-thin mattress, and my neck had a nice little crick in it—just to remind me that comfort, like explanations, was apparently in short supply here.

The sound came again—louder now. I dragged myself to the window, rubbing at my eyes, and peered out. The massive stone doors at the far end of the Glade were sliding open, grating against the stone with a teeth-jarring screech. I watched, breath held, as they slowly parted, revealing a dark corridor beyond. Cold, grey, endless.

My heart beat faster, but not out of fear. Curiosity buzzed inside me like a live wire. I didn't know what was out there—but I wanted to. Desperately. It was like something in my bones whispered that the answers were beyond those doors, waiting. Still, I didn't move. Not yet.

There was work to do. And more importantly, I wasn't ready to step into the unknown again—not until I made some kind of peace with where I was now. If I was going to be stuck here, I might as well make it... livable. Or at least a bit less apocalyptic.

With a sigh, I turned back to the central building and opened the crate marked "Clothes." I'd seen it yesterday but hadn't had the energy to deal with it. Now, it felt like a project. A small one. Manageable.

Inside were a few folded items—minimal, practical. I pulled them out one by one: two short-sleeved shirts, one long-sleeved, a faded hoodie that smelled faintly of cardboard and dust. Three pairs of shorts in slightly different shades of grey. Four pairs of long pants—two canvas, one jogger style, and one I could only describe as "mystery fabric." I had two pairs of boots and a whole lot of socks and underwear. 

I placed the clothes on the shelves that lined the far wall, organizing them with a precision that surprised me. Maybe it was the silence, maybe it was the solitude, or maybe I just needed something—anything—I could control. 

Bark trotted over to me, his nails clicking softly against the wooden floor. He sat down with a curious tilt of his head, his tongue lolling out slightly and his tail thudding once—twice—against the ground. I reached out and gave him a quick pat behind the ears. His fur was soft and warm, and the small gesture of affection grounded me in a way I hadn't realized I needed.

I glanced around the clearing, then decided it was finally time to check out the building I'd seen yesterday—the one that looked like it might be a kitchen. I figured if I was going to get anything done today, food had to be a good place to start.

The kitchen was nestled toward the back of the central part of the homestead, half-shaded by the tall trees that loomed just behind it. The doorway creaked as I pushed it open, and a puff of dust drifted lazily into the sunlight. The inside was dim, lit only by narrow windows streaked with grime, but as my eyes adjusted, I took in the space properly.

It was larger than I'd expected—definitely old, probably untouched for years, but not broken. The crates I'd dumped there yesterday still sat in the corner, scattered like forgotten luggage. Everything was coated in a thin layer of dust and spiderwebs stretched across the tops of the cabinets like the kitchen had been caught in a slow, sleepy time-lapse.

Still, there was potential.

The room held a tired kind of promise. I spotted a full-sized fridge, its door slightly ajar; a stove with old-fashioned knobs; a microwave; and a sink beneath the window, its faucet caked in a chalky film. The counters were long, made from some kind of laminate that was faded and scratched but intact.