But Nevada is full of that sort of signage. Cold War leftovers. Military testing zones. Area 51 mythology recycled for tourists.
Most of them are old… and theater.
People whisper about the mountains as if they’re haunted. People whisper about everything out here.
I don’t do whispers.
I do patterns.
Anomalous petroglyph clusters have been documented along the lower foothills for decades. Repeating geometric sequences that don’t align cleanly with known regional symbol systems. They aren’t decorative. They aren’t random.
They repeat.
Repetition implies intent. Intent implies language. Language implies meaning. That’s enough to anchor a dissertation.
The ranch comes into view, white paint peeling a little more than I remember, lilacs heavy with bloom.
Twelve years is a long time. Long enough to rehearse apologies.
In the distance, I see her. Grandma’s already on the porch waiting. But first, I stop in front of Grandpa and the neighbor. I barely get the car into park before I’m out, smiling like everything that happened before no longer matters.
“Grandpa.” It comes out before I mean for it to.
He’s older. Still solid. Still stubborn.
The saddle creaks, and he looks half-tempted to dismount, but barbed wire still separates us.
Time leaves fingerprints.
Not for Ash, though.
I notice him across the fence line before I consciously decide to look.
Same posture. Same shoulders. Same turquoise eyes that don’t quite fit the rest of him.
More than a decade. He should look different. But he doesn’t.
“You haven’t changed,” I say.
He gives me that infuriating half-answer about time moving differently out here.
That’s not how that works.
He studies me like I’m the anomaly. It irritates me more than it should.
The fence between us feels deliberate. He tells me to stay off the upper ridges. Not casually or neighborly. But like a command.
I bristle.
“I’m not planning on hiking into restricted territory,” I say lightly.
He doesn’t look convinced.
A faint warmth creeps up my arms—probably sun exposure. Probably nerves. Probably the long drive.
I ignore it.
He agrees to dinner. I pretend that doesn’t register. But it does.
