The old cedar tree stands strong as ever, and in the wind, I can see just a hint more of the rusted mailbox than usual. Between the goldenrod and pokeweed, I see our name, painted on by my great-grandmother perhaps. Or one of the women before her.
Wilde.
The word hums in my chest, like a spell. Like a wish.
It’s strange, but I swear I hear Foxglove breathing with me.
I don’t know what comes next. I don’t know who I’ll be.
But I know where I am. Here. Home.
People will forever try to lay claim to Foxglove, just as they always have. Centuries ago, the Wilde women battled things I can’t imagine to keep this land. Men and dangers I’ll never know. Generations later, we’re still fighting, and I’m not sure thethreats have changed all that much. Men and their greed will always want her, but she will never be theirs.
I vow it to Foxglove, hoping she’s listening.
This place—this old, haunted, sacred, holy place—belongs to me now.
And I belong to it.
Wilde women live here.
And we are never going anywhere.
