With a tremble in my voice, I called out, "Al? Are you here?"
The silence was deafening, the only response the howling wind. But then, a faint noise — a whimper, a cry? It was muffled, barely audible, but it was there.
I rushed inside, the door groaning on its rusted hinges. The room was dimly lit by a single candle, casting eerie shadows on the walls. There, in the corner, lay a figure, bound and gagged.
I raced over, tears blurring my vision. It was Al — bruised, beaten, but alive. I worked frantically to free him, the knots loosening under my trembling fingers. As the gag fell away, his eyes met mine, filled with relief and fear.
"Ez," he murmured, his voice weak and hoarse. "I knew you'd come for me."
The floodgates of emotion opened, and I couldn't hold back the sobs. I hugged him tightly, feeling his warmth seep into my frozen bones.
"I'm sorry," I choked out. "I'm so sorry."
"It's not your fault," he whispered, his voice barely a murmur. "You've got to be strong, Ez. For both of us."