You stumbled, bare feet slipping on wet pine needles and mud. The thin hospital gown was plastered to your skin, heavy and filthy. Number 029, stitched in faded blue over your heart.

Ahead, through the swaying branches, a house. It stood crooked among the trees, its windows dark and broken. The paint had peeled away in long, ghostly strips. It looked empty. It looked like shelter.

The front door was unlocked, groaning inward on rusted hinges. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the smell of old wood rot. The floorboards creaked under your weight with every cautious step.

Upstairs, in a hallway lined with closed doors, a different sound. Not the storm. Voices. Male. Coming from behind a door at the far end.

The first door on your right was a bedroom. A dresser stood against the wall, its top drawer slightly ajar. Inside, folded neat and forgotten, was a stack of flannel shirts.