“I’ll take the shortcut.”
Chapter
Four
The first stop on this outing was the front desk, and now I’ve done all I can. Borrowed an adapter, switched our flight on the airline’s app, and left a voicemail for Poppa with the revised plan. My phone is charging, safely tucked away in my room.
I set off on the trail feeling upbeat. The woods behind the inn burst with red ferns and tiny white wildflowers. Birch and rowan leaves glow gold and crimson among the Scots pine. The trail cuts uphill, burning my legs in a good way. The brisk air clears my head.
The higher I climb, the more the trees thin, until I crest the top and…wow. The trail opens to rolling hills—lazy, sprawling, endless—blanketed in a spiny carpet of heather. And there, in the distance, Loch Lomond. Sunlight glimmers across the steel-blue water, serene and tranquil.
I grin. “You’re not so scary, are you?”
I shut my eyes and inhale deeply, filling my lungs with crisp, clean air. But a twinge of homesickness sneaks in. This is beautiful. Peaceful. But something’s missing.
Back home, mornings burst with life—our sheep bleating, chickens fussing, the old rooster crowing at all hours. Our farm sounds alive. It smells alive, too—paddocks, pasture, sun-warmed hay. It’s a gut-deep reassurance of life and work and sustenance. Other kids complain about farm life—the dirt, the stink, the chores. But not me. I love it. And in a few days, I’ll be back.
I sigh. Because when I’m raking out the henhouse, wishing I were anywhere else, I’ll regret not enjoying this more.
So I hike on.
Up ahead, the trail splits. One path curves toward the open hills—the West Highland Way, the one Una told me about. But I’m not in the mood for encountering other hikers.
The smaller path vanishes into the trees, half-hidden, almost secret. Like it’s been waiting for me.
I step forward before I can think twice.
The narrow footpath twists and weaves into the woods. The earth, damp with fallen leaves, gives softly beneath my boots. Branches arch overhead, filtering the light into shifting patches of gold and shadow. The deeper I go, the quieter it gets, the hush of the forest pressing around me.
By the time it spills me into a valley, the sun has shifted. Cold gusts of air creep down my neck, and I button my sweater to my throat.
What if I get lost? What if Janet turns up and I’m not there?
I curse myself. I didn’t come all this way just to play it safe.
Chafing my arms to warm up, I follow an old post-and-rail fence into a glen. Ragged heather clings to the hillside, crunchy yet springy underfoot.
The wind picks up, and this time I smile into it, tasting the crisp air. For the first time in forever, I feel free. I surge forward, cresting a small rise. And stop cold.
Graves. A lot of them.
Cemeteries are normal. Nothing supernatural about them.
So why is my skin crawling?
I force my feet forward. It’s just old stones and history. That’s all.
And now that I’m actually looking, the place is kind of cool. A massive burial vault looms at the entrance, half-swallowed by vines, its iron fence rusted and buckling. The structure itself is rectangular, shaped like a stone shed. Crude skull carvings gape from the front, their hollow eyes worn smooth by time. A jagged crack splits the door almost in two.
And above it all, a blank-eyed angel with one chipped wing. She holds a carved banner across her chest: CAMPBELL.
A shiver runs down my spine. My fingers find the chain around my neck—Janet’s old wedding ring. I tug it free from under my shirt, the crude band of yellow gold heavy with history.
My mother won’t tell me about it, but Google did. The inscription:Ne Obliviscaris.
Forget Not.
The Campbell motto.Myfamily motto.
