The First Runner

Maybe it will all work out

Rewritten

The next morning arrived far sooner than I'd wanted it to. Pale gold light leaked through the warped windows of the Homestead, streaking across the floor like ghostly fingers reaching for me. I groaned quietly, my limbs aching from the constant work of the past few days. I hadn't realized how exhausting running a miniature society alone could be—until I had to do it for three weeks straight.

Bark was already awake, of course. The scruffy mutt sat patiently outside my door, tail sweeping the floor with slow, rhythmic thumps like a metronome keeping time with the quiet. He tilted his head when I opened the door, tongue lolling out as if to say, Finally.

"Morning, boy," I murmured, scratching behind his ears. His fur was warm and familiar, grounding me in a way I hadn't known I needed.

I yawned and rubbed the back of my neck as I stepped into the hallway, barefoot on the cool floorboards. One by one, I opened the doors to the other rooms, peeking inside. All the boys were still out cold—some curled under thin blankets, others starfished awkwardly across mattresses like they hadn't moved all night. I paused at each doorway a little longer than necessary, just watching them breathe. I'd gotten so used to being alone in this place that part of me still didn't quite believe they were real.

I left them to sleep and padded downstairs with Bark at my heels, the old wood creaking beneath me. The Glade was still and quiet outside, mist hanging over the grass like a veil. For a moment, I let myself stand on the porch and breathe it in. Three weeks ago, it had just been me—me, Bark, and this place that was too big, too empty, too quiet. Now... now I had company. Strangers, sure. But living, breathing, talking company.

The kitchen smelled faintly of ash and herbs, a comforting scent I'd grown used to over the weeks. I cracked some eggs into a pan, tossed in herbs I'd dried myself, and threw slices of bread on a griddle to toast. The small routines helped settle me. Made me feel less like a girl trapped in a maze and more like someone who had a purpose.

As the eggs sizzled, I heard the telltale creak of the porch and soft footsteps approaching. I turned, wiping my hands on a cloth just as Alby stepped into the kitchen. His curls were sticking up in every direction, and he looked like he was still trying to piece together whether this was all a dream.

"Morning," I said softly, offering a tired smile. "I made breakfast."

He blinked at me, then nodded slowly, eyes scanning the room like it might change if he looked hard enough.

Soon, the others trickled in. Some of them muttered greetings; most just stared. Their faces held that same haunted expression I'd worn in the days after I'd first arrived—confused, wary, and too exhausted to be scared anymore.

"Come on, let's eat," I said, setting down mismatched plates. They hesitated, but eventually the scent of food won out. Forks scraped against enamel and the room filled with the gentle clink of dishes.

It was quiet. Awkward. Understandably so. They had every right to feel disoriented, and I wasn't exactly a seasoned hostess. I felt like I was watching myself from the outside, this girl who had been alone for so long suddenly surrounded by people—strangers—who now needed her to be something solid. A guide. A leader. An answer.

I swallowed my nerves and sat up a little straighter. "I know you guys have a lot of questions," I said, breaking the silence. A few heads turned. "And I'll do my best to answer them. But first, let me show you around the Glade—explain how things work here. It's... not much, but it's what we've got."

And for the first time in weeks, I wasn't alone.

After breakfast, I led the boys out into the Glade. The air was sharp and cool, the kind that clung to your skin and made you feel a little more alive, even if the walls looming over us reminded you you were anything but free. The boys stepped cautiously, eyes darting, shoulders tight. Like scared animals. Couldn't really blame them.