Chapter 2 — Arrival at Sanctuary

Mason

The drive to Mason’s house was steeped in silence, broken only by the hum of the engine and the rhythmic rustle of trees swaying in the early morning breeze. Outside, the sky was shifting from deep indigo to the soft pink hues of dawn, bathing the narrow road in muted light. Beside him, Miranda sat hunched in the passenger seat, cocooned in the blanket he’d given her at the hospital. Her fingers clutched its edges tightly, as if it alone kept her tethered to the present. Her head rested against the window, her gaze fixed on the passing forest, though her eyes seemed distant, unfocused.

Mason’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, the worn leather creaking under his grip. He glanced at her briefly, careful not to linger, the fragility of her posture pressing on him like a weight. Bruises peeked out from beneath the edge of her sleeve, faint but undeniable, each one telling a story she had yet to voice. She hadn’t spoken since they left the hospital. The tension in her shoulders, the way she seemed to fold into herself, warned him against pushing her. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable; it was delicate, like glass that might crack under the wrong pressure.

As they rounded the final curve of the dirt road, the house came into view. Mason’s chest eased slightly at the sight of its familiar silhouette framed by the forest. The soft glow of the rising sun spilled over the roof and bathed the porch in golden light, a quiet beacon against the backdrop of towering pines. Nestled at the edge of the woods, the house was more than a structure—it was a sanctuary, built and rebuilt over the years into a place of refuge. He only hoped it might one day feel the same for her.

“We’re here,” he said quietly, his voice measured and calm, careful not to startle her.

Miranda stirred, her gaze shifting toward the house. For a fleeting moment, something flickered in her expression—curiosity, maybe, or wariness—but it faded as quickly as it had appeared. She tightened her grip on the blanket, her throat moving in a tense swallow.

Mason pulled the car to a stop and stepped out, the crunch of gravel under his boots breaking the quiet. Moving to her side, he opened the door with deliberate slowness. The soft creak made her flinch, and she shrank back into the seat. He stepped away immediately, giving her space.

“It’s okay,” he said, his tone gentle but steady. “Take your time.”

For a moment, she didn’t move. Then, as if summoning every ounce of willpower, she unfolded herself and stepped out. Her bare feet hesitated against the gravel, her toes curling briefly at the rough texture. She adjusted the blanket around her shoulders, her movements quick and defensive, as though fearing the morning breeze might strip it away.

“This way,” Mason said, motioning toward the house. He kept a few paces ahead, allowing her the space she seemed to need. Her steps were light, almost soundless, her body language cautious and hyper-aware. The air was cool but carried a faint warmth from the rising sun, mingling with the rich, earthy scent of pine and damp soil.

The porch creaked softly beneath their weight as they climbed the steps. Miranda froze at the threshold, her gaze darting between the house and the road behind them. Her shoulders stiffened, and one foot edged backward, as though she were considering retreat. Mason paused with his hand on the doorknob and turned to face her, keeping his posture open and unthreatening.

“This place is meant to feel safe,” he said softly, his voice low enough to avoid breaking the stillness around them. “You don’t have to trust it yet. Just… take your time.”

For a long moment, she remained rooted to the spot. Then, with a small, almost imperceptible nod, she shuffled forward, her bare toes brushing the edge of the entrance. Mason opened the door, letting the warmth of the house spill out to greet them. The faint aroma of coffee mingled with the soft, herbal scent of lavender—Nick’s touch, with the sachets he tucked in corners and windowsills throughout the living room.

Miranda’s eyes darted across the space, taking in the overstuffed couch draped with blankets, the shelves crammed with books, and the soft, neutral hues of the walls. Her fingers loosened slightly on the blanket, the tension in her shoulders easing by the smallest fraction. Her gaze lingered momentarily on a cluster of framed photographs resting on a nearby shelf—a mix of candid snapshots, some of the housemates, others of scenic views—and then flitted away just as quickly.

“Hey, Mason, that you?” Nick’s voice carried from the kitchen, warm and animated despite the early hour. A moment later, he appeared in the doorway, a wooden spoon in hand and his apron askew. His grin was bright but softened the instant he caught sight of Miranda. The flour smudged on his cheek gave him an air of unassuming charm.

“Morning,” Mason said, keeping his tone light. “This is Miranda. She’ll be staying with us.”

Nick’s smile gentled further. “Welcome, Miranda,” he said, his voice warm and inviting. “Take your time settling in. No pressure, but there are waffles in the works if you’re up for it.”

Miranda didn’t respond, her gaze dropping to the floor, but her grip on the blanket shifted subtly, less rigid than before. Mason stepped in smoothly, his voice low. “Later,” he murmured, a quiet signal to Nick.

“Got it,” Nick replied easily, backing toward the kitchen with a wink. “Whenever you’re ready. Waffles wait for no one, but I’ll save you some.”

Mason turned back to Miranda and nodded toward the staircase. “Come on. I’ll show you to your room.”

She followed him silently, her steps feather-light on the wooden stairs. At the end of the hall, Mason opened the last door, revealing a small but welcoming room. Sunlight streamed through the window, painting golden streaks across the pale quilt neatly draped over the bed. A simple wooden dresser stood against one wall, and a chair sat tucked in the corner. The window offered a view of the forest, where the trees swayed gently in the breeze.

“This is yours for as long as you need it,” Mason said. “The bathroom’s down the hall on the left, and there are towels in the cabinet.”

Miranda lingered in the doorway, her gaze scanning the room with quick, darting movements. Her eyes paused briefly on the sunlight filtering through the window, catching on small motes of dust swirling in its glow. She didn’t step inside. Her fingers traced the edge of the blanket, her knuckles pale.

“If you need anything,” Mason added, “my room is just across the hall.”

She nodded, the motion slow and deliberate. After what felt like an eternity, she took one cautious step inside. Her bare feet brushed the wooden floor, and she stood still, as though testing the air around her. Mason hesitated, unsure whether to stay or leave. In the end, he decided to give her space.

“I’ll let you settle in,” he said, his voice soft. “We’ll talk later.”

The door clicked gently shut behind him as he stepped into the hallway. For a moment, Mason leaned against the doorframe, his hand resting lightly on the wood. The image of Miranda standing so small and hesitant in the doorway replayed in his mind, stirring a deep ache in his chest. He didn’t know if he’d made the right decision, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. All he knew was that she needed help, and this house had always been a place for second chances.

Downstairs, the scent of waffles greeted him as he entered the kitchen. Nick leaned casually against the counter, his usual energy tempered by quiet curiosity.

“She okay?” Nick asked, his tone uncharacteristically subdued.

“She will be,” Mason said, though the words felt more like an aspiration than a certainty. He poured himself a mug of coffee, the warmth grounding him.

Nick nodded thoughtfully. “What’s her story?”

“I don’t know yet,” Mason admitted. “She hasn’t said much.”

Nick tapped the spoon against the counter, his expression softening. “Well, if she needs waffles, I’m her guy. If she needs space… I can do that too.”

A faint smile tugged at Mason’s lips. “I’ll let her know.”

Nick’s grin returned briefly before he turned back to the waffle iron. The kitchen fell quiet again, save for the subtle hum of the appliance. Mason sipped his coffee, his thoughts drifting back upstairs. Whatever Miranda was running from, it had left deep wounds—some visible, most not. He didn’t know if this house could heal her, but it was all he had to offer.

For now, it would have to be enough. A beginning.