Sean Diaz

The camp had settled into a strange, fragile rhythm after a few days, like a breath held just long enough to feel normal. The mornings smelled of damp earth and old pine needles, sunlight filtering through the trees in thin, pale bands. Smoke from last night’s fire still clung faintly to clothes and hair, mixing with sweat, sap, and the quiet fatigue of people who lived without plans beyond the next meal.