I’ve got the windows down, eyes fixed on the entrance to Sapphire Valley—a wooden archway stretched across the top of a security building, with metal gates on either side, standing wide open. It’s been eight months since I last came here, though it feels far longer.
Shifting my truck into drive, I roll through, entering a place I never imagined would make me feel sick to my stomach to return to. At the split, I turn right, following the lush, solitary road. Tall blue spruce trees flank me on both sides as I round the southernmost point of Sapphire Lake.
The cabin, Echo Ridge, is under construction, but it’s kept the old charm of its logwood exterior. Metal slabs and crates sit off to the right of the structure. It looks livable, though I’m not sure anyone has moved in; I don’t remember seeing any lights last Christmas.
I only started coming to Wildhart Hollow—I’ll call it just Wildhart—my stepfather’s family cabin, a year after Ayden’s high schoolgraduation. He worked in town as a doctor, while my mom taught at the only elementary school in Maple Falls. Even at their age, I’d never imagined they would want to live so simply.
They were happy… suppose that’s all that matters.
It takes about ten minutes to get from the entrance to Wildhart, and as the trees thin, the quiet home comes into view.
A hollow ache settles right in my chest as I take a deep breath.
The cabin is built primarily from round, natural log timbers, topped with a pitched metal gabled roof that was replaced just a year ago. A stone chimney rises near the front—one I’m used to seeing a trail of smoke come from, fleeting into the cold air.
Windows line both levels, with two flanking the solid-wood front door. The door sits beneath the overhanging porch roof, which wraps around the front and right side of the cabin. On the right side, beneath the shade, sits a seating area: four loungers, a small table, and a two-person swing that was used far more often than the living room inside.
I park the truck and turn my gaze toward the lake. A dock juts out from the grassy bank. The water, unlike my fucking head, is calm. I can feel the building of a migraine, causing me to groan and quickly get out before it can fester.
Slamming the truck door, I drag myself toward the cabin’s entrance. A dozen mismatched chairs sit in a rough circle around the fire pit, positioned between the dock and the porch. From the steps to the water’s edge can’t be more than twenty feet—talk about waterfront property.
The porch boards creak under my weight, and I hear my mom’s voice in my head, teasing Grant to reinforce the structure. All jokes, of course. It’s not the fault of the wood. I’m just built like a bear—minus the fur. Aside from the curls on my head.
I was a linebacker for a reason.
I reach up to the lamp on the right, pull the spare key from its hiding spot, and unlock the door.
This place has always smelled like safety. Not an actual scent; more a feeling. A tingle in my nose, a warmth settling in my chest. I took it for granted, only coming once a year.
The living room opens straight ahead, a wall to my right linedwith photos. Mine, my family’s, and the Pierce’s. I don’t look at them, and instead, keep my eyes fixed on not one particular place.
The lights are off, but the curtainless windows let sunlight flood in. Dust motes drift through the beams, some hitting harder than others. One particularly bright ray falls across the kitchen table, where a half-eaten cake sits abandoned.
I move through the space, skirting the table at the center of the room. The air is thick with different smells—stale, unmoving, andold.
As if no one has been here for years, instead of weeks.
The bundt cake under its glass dome is furred with mold. I let out a heavy, painful sigh, but it does nothing to ease the pressure in my chest.
When I lift my head, my gaze catches on a stack of mail by the counter. Even from here, I spot the gray envelope I sent three weeks ago.
Circling the table, I thumb through the pile until I can slide it free. Grant’s friend—kind enough to collect Clover after hearing the news—had also dropped off the mail. But the sight of the cake makes my jaw tighten.
Would it have killed him to throw it out? Barefuckingminimum.
Taking the envelope, I slide open the flap, and feel my pulse rise. A darker paper falls out from between the folded one I open up, but I read the letter first.
Mom,
You were right, as always.
There’s a surprise folded in this. I hope you read this letter first.
Aloha wau ia ?oe
You and Grant will have to help me find a place, and how to adjust to the colder temperatures.
Keoni
