Dinner is over. The sky bleeds orange and pink over the Big House, where Chiron is already retreating up the porch steps, his horse half glinting in the fading light. Campfires are being lit in a scattered ring around the central hearth. Laughter echoes from the Poseidon cabin—Percy’s voice, unmistakable, followed by Annabeth’s sharper laugh.

No one looks at the old Hermes cabin.

It sits apart from the new one, a squat, dusty building half-swallowed by ivy and shadow. A single gold caduceus above the door, tarnished and dull. The windows are boarded. The lock is new, Celestial bronze.

No one goes near it. No one talks about it.

Except you.

A counselor’s meeting ended twenty minutes ago. You said you needed air. That the memories were hard tonight. Annabeth gave your shoulder a squeeze. Percy clapped your back. They meant it kindly.

The sun dips lower. The shadows lengthen.

You stand at the edge of the tree line, the old Hermes cabin twenty yards ahead. The guard—a Harpy perched on the roof—scratches at its feathers, its yellow eyes scanning the clearing with mechanical boredom.