Signs of Thaw

A restless wind ruffled the barren orchard as icicles dripped in a slow, steady rhythm from the shelter's eaves. The air still bit at any exposed skin, but there was no denying that winter's iron grip had begun to loosen. In place of the deep snowdrifts that once hemmed in the compound, uneven crusts of ice now receded, revealing patches of muddy ground slick with meltwater. For the first time in weeks, the roads around the shelter were somewhat navigable—though still treacherous and riddled with half-frozen ruts.

Leila stood at the orchard gate, surveying the slushy path that wound through the skeletal fruit trees. Where knee-high snowdrifts once blocked any hope of venturing farther than a mile, watery furrows now promised a chance to push outward. Small foraging parties could at least attempt to scavenge for the seeds or tinned goods that might have escaped earlier hunts.

Mark joined her, wiping droplets of melted snow from his brow. He wore a coat patched with bits of tarp—one more testament to the winter's destructive force. "Weather's shifting faster than expected," he commented, tapping the ground with a boot to test its solidity. "We might risk a supply run soon—maybe check the old highway storehouses."

Leila nodded, eyes lingering on the orchard branches overhead. Even stripped of leaves, the orchard felt less claustrophobic than during winter's peak. "We'll need watchers in case that rumored band is real," she said, voice low. The orchard watchers' sightings of silhouettes among the trees after the storms nagged at her conscience. If Jace and Ellie are out there… She tried not to let the thought finish, burying her anxiety behind a measured tone.

Mark tucked his hands into his coat pockets. "We'll manage a scouting team first—no big haul. Enough to see if the roads are safe." Then he stepped away, heading to meet with the watchers who'd volunteered for an initial reconnaissance. Leila remained at the fence, scanning the horizon one last time before trudging back into the courtyard. Each step splashed through half-melted ice, the ground slick beneath her boots.

Inside the shelter, a subdued bustle greeted her. With the thaw, tasks changed pace: fewer had to spend hours shoveling snowdrifts, though in its place came mopping up puddles that seeped through the battered walls. In one corner of the courtyard, the two refugees who arrived last arc—still under cautious watch—hauled broken planks of wood onto a cart. The man, favoring a bruised rib, grimaced yet pushed on, while the woman took direction from Tamsin, who was supervising repairs along the fence.

They rarely spoke unless spoken to, wearing anxious expressions as though still expecting to be cast out at any moment. Some community members had warmed to them slightly, seeing the earnestness in their labor. Yet hushed mutterings persisted—Are they truly fleeing a vicious band or feeding them info? So far, no direct evidence of dishonesty had emerged, but suspicion bubbled beneath the surface.

Fiona, passing by with a stack of bandages, paused to show the refugees how to properly bind splintered wood or minor cuts. Her gentle instructions carried a note of acceptance. Leila watched from afar, hoping their productive involvement might quell distrust. But her gut told her the tension among longtime residents and these newcomers wasn't fully resolved. The phrase "spy" occasionally slipped into corridor gossip, stoking rumors like embers.

Shortly after lunch, Tamsin burst into the storage wing where Leila was updating ration logs. A cold draft seeped through a gap in the wall, making their breaths visible in the dim, lantern-lit space. Tamsin's face was tight with indignation. "Leila," she hissed, holding up an empty jar, "I had half a jar of honey here this morning—now it's gone. The second time this week. And I'm missing a small bag of oats from the corner shelf."

Leila's heart sank. "I thought we already locked the main storeroom. No one's allowed in unaccompanied, especially not the new arrivals."

Tamsin set the jar down on a crate, clenching her jaw. "Someone found a way around it or snatched it before we locked up. This is more than careless rummaging." She gestured toward a nearby shelf. "Fiona's bandages are short too, right?"

Leila recalled Fiona's earlier complaint—two rolls of gauze missing, unaccounted for. "Yes," she confirmed, running a hand over her brow. "We can't jump to accuse the refugees, though. Other items vanished before they arrived. Could be a desperate survivor hoarding supplies."

Tamsin narrowed her eyes, clearly suspicious. "Desperate times make people do desperate things. Whether it's infiltration or petty theft, we can't ignore it."

Sighing, Leila flipped her ledger to scan the logs once more. Each line detailed items in short supply: nails, cooking oil, dried fruit, now honey. "We'll set watchers discreetly on the storehouse," she decided. "I'll see if Mark can help install a better lock. Keep track of who enters and when."

Tamsin nodded, her frustration shifting to determination. "We can't afford infiltration again. Not after last time." With that, she stormed out, leaving Leila staring at the meager stockpile, worry gnawing at her insides. Infiltration or minor theft—neither is good.

On the surface, tasks proceeded with mechanical efficiency: orchard watchers clearing branches, a few scavengers preparing to test the newly passable roads, ration lines kept short to avoid arguments. People seemed to sense the meltdown might soon allow a wave of both opportunity and danger, so they hustled to get the shelter in shape.

Yet beneath the veneer, rumors swirled. Whispers of "Who's stealing supplies?" joined older whispers of "Are Jace and Ellie out there?" Each question stoked a simmering distrust. Some pointed fingers at the new refugees by default, while others suspected certain longtime members. No one openly accused each other, but the atmosphere felt taut, as if one spark could light a conflagration of suspicion.

Leila's nightmares returned each night, leaving her even more exhausted. She dreaded that the supply thefts might be the first sign of infiltration by a group linked to Jace. Kai, noticing her deepening fatigue, tried to approach her again in the courtyard just before dusk. She was overseeing watchers layering spare planks on the orchard fence's bottom edge, preventing more meltdown water from seeping in.

"Leila," he began gently, stepping closer. His gaze carried concern. "You're carrying too much alone. Let me help with the supply investigation, or at least talk about—"

She cut him off, though her voice trembled. "I appreciate it, Kai, but… I have it under control." Her heart clenched at the softness in his tone, but the memory of Jace's once-soft words overshadowed it. "Focus on watch duties," she ended, turning away to finalize the fence boards. She refused to let him see how her eyes glistened with unshed tears of frustration.

By late evening, a chill dusk settled, painting the sky in streaks of pale purple and gray. In the main hall, watchers quietly reviewed the day's sightings—no direct confrontation, but footprints near the orchard suggested new foragers or potential raider scouts. Plans for the next day's small salvage run circulated, with volunteers eyeing the slushy roads warily. Fiona updated her medical logs, Tamsin locked the storehouse, and Mark double-checked rosters.

Leila retreated to a corner near the small fire barrel, lingering in the shadows to observe. The "refugees" chatted softly with one of Darren's watchers, seeming genuine in their desire to help. Meanwhile, subtle glances from other survivors hinted they still suspected these strangers might be behind the missing supplies or connected to outside threats. Tamsin's face remained stern as she locked the storeroom door with a newly installed chain.

Kai, finishing a conversation with a watcher at the opposite side of the hall, cast Leila a concerned glance. She felt the weight of his unspoken question—Are you sure you're okay?—but she averted her gaze, burying the pang of longing to lean on his steady presence. The haunting memory of Jace's betrayal tightened her throat, forbidding her from bridging that gap.