PROLOGUE
JACE
1 YEAR AGO
My grief stretches out before me like an endless sheet of ice, solid from the harshness of winter but thinning with the nearing of spring. If I’m careful, intentionally placing each step as the ice creaks below me, I can cross over it. I can make it to the other side without a single thought of him, but the slightest pressure, even a passing memory, is enough to cause a violent fracturing beneath me. The fissure widens until I finally fall, and the unforgiving coldness of grief paralyzes me. I’m left to drown in him until I wonder how I was ever on the surface at all.
Beyond my bedroom window, the winter wind howls a woeful hymn, rattling the thin glass in its fragile frame. A branch occasionally scratches across the panes, adding a sharp shriek to the chorus of the storm. There’s a sad solace in winter’s song, and I allow it to consume me, the melody the only thing strong enough to subdue the overwhelming heartache and loneliness threatening to tear me apart. I only wish its tune wasn’t the same pitch as the crack of my voice during our final argument. Itwhistles through the air like my wavering voice did as I begged him to stay.
“I’m sorry, Jace. There’s just some stuff I need to work out on my own.”
Cyrus has been gone for a year now. Coming back to my parents’ home was supposed to bring relief, but this place is a tomb. The walls close in. intensifying the pressure inside my chest until it crushes the air from my lungs. I’m supposed to be rebuilding, fitting the broken pieces inside me back together—without him. Yet, I still search for him everywhere, in everything, hoping to see him strolling through the pasture towards the house, to spot a flicker of his face amongst strangers in town. My eyes, raw from hours of crying myself into an unsettling calm, sting as I gaze out the window. I wince through the pain, squinting as I struggle to see beyond the expanse of snow to where it melts in the distant dark. Flurries of snowflakes swirl in discordant spirals until they join the thick blanket of white smothering anything lying beneath it.
I close my eyes, picturing myself stripping down before wandering uncovered into the frozen abyss. As I take one fateful step after another, the cold burns my bare feet, leaving them scalded and red. My face stings from the bitter chill until the skin goes numb, and I feel nothing at all. I’m ready to submit myself to the constant call drawing me into the darkness. The winter whispers to me, urging me to lie down and bury myself in the snow. The crows will build a wreath of pine needles around my head, the earthy color of them the same as his hazel eyes. All I have to do is fall asleep, drift away like snow on the wind, never to be tormented by thoughts ofusagain. He said he was leaving to save me, but his absence is heavier to bear than his presence ever was.
“This will all make sense one day. I promise.”
Cyrus Gibson, once the only constant in my life, became consistent in his sudden and total nonexistence. One day, he was there, smiling in our kitchen over our morning cup of coffee, and the next, he was gone, like he was never there at all. I didn’t realize until then how deeply I’d stitched a piece of him inside me, too deep to just pull out. With each passing day, I pulled on the loose ends he left until I became a tangled lump of string. I don’t know how to put myself back together, how the pieces fit without him filling in the extra space.
In childhood, we were inseparable, bound together by our family’s secrets, ones he seemed to know better than I did. Over time, our differences slowly became a canyon between us. Our words lost all meaning as they traveled through the open space. He wanted me to escape from our past, to stay in the city and forget. He refused to divide the weight of our shared burdens, even as I cradled his face in my hands and begged him to confide in me and share the load. Cyrus stood firm in his defiance, and then he left—no final words, no reasoning, just nothingness.
The door slams.
I press my forehead against the window, the cool glass soothing my clammy skin. From the corner of my eye, I see a shadow move across the snow, slipping from tree to tree. Fear slides over me, my muscles tensing as I wait for the shape to move again. Part of me hopes it’s him watching me out in the dark. At least I would know he’s alive, that I didn’t just make up that part of our lives. When nothing else stirs outside other than the falling snow, I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut. It’s only exhaustion playing malicious tricks on me; nothing would walk around in this storm.
Just in case itismore than a figment of my tired mind, I hurry away from the window and dive towards my bed. Even after I lie down, my pulse thrums in my ears, whooshing like waves of uncertainty washing over me. The pumping of mybroken heart reminds me of how incredibly painful it is to be alive. I roll over and scream into my pillow as every raw emotion burns through me like acid, eroding my insides until I’m desperate to feel nothing at all. Despair rips through my veins, ridding me of any chance at peace tonight.
Hopelessness sets in like the edge of winter chasing away the final days of fall until you’re certain you’ll never be warm again. The turning of the seasons is inevitable, and change is inescapable. I need to accept the sharp edges of life before every part of me becomes dull. I just pray I don’t bleed out in the process.
1
JACE
Iwill never understand why folks consider fall to be the scariest time of year. I’m sure it’s because of Halloween. The holiday makes fall the clear winner of spooky season—for most people. There’s logic in their choice, but they’re not from the mountains. Winter is far more terrifying here—crops die, animals go into hibernation, the ground freezes, and all secrets become buried beneath layers of snow. The world becomes cold and isolated, shrouded in darkness. For several long, bitter months, all living things focus solely on one goal: survival. Fall is for spooky decorations and fake haunted houses. Winter is unforgiving.
I’m no stranger to the desolation of the season. Each winter, I help my parents prepare themselves and their livestock for the months ahead. This year is no exception, but normally, I help from a distance, ordering enough animal feed, supplies, and fuel to get them through mid-March. This year, I’m heading home after begging them to come stay with me instead became a fruitless endeavor. Finding a farmhand was out of the question, both feasibly and financially, and without help, they can’t leave. There was no counterargument; no one wants to come home in spring to a pasture full of thawing carcasses. It was much easierfor me to find a college kid, one who didn’t want to leave for winter break, to take over my lease until I return.
After last winter, the thought of surviving another at their home so soon is daunting. The memory of struggling to make it through those lonely months is still fresh, and I don’t want to slip into another spiral of grief when I’m barely hanging on now. My parents are aging, though, and I’ve run out of excuses not to come to them—excuses I won’t admit out loud, anyway.
It’s only a few months; that’s what I’m telling myself, just for the winter. I’ll help take some of the winter chore load off them, keep all their grazing dollar signs alive, and attempt to repay them for keeping me together last year. They took care of me when I was at my absolute lowest, so I owe them this much at least.
The dirt road stretches out in front of the same beat-up pickup truck I’ve had since high school. The truck bed is full of feed bags, and the cab is full of classic rock, with me drumming out the beat against the steering wheel. This road always seems to take double the time it should. The trees rush past the window, appearing to duplicate, leaving you unsure which mile of the stretch you’re on as the road winds through the hills. Tiny snowflakes crystalize on the windshield before turning to slush as the wipers swish them away. The first snow has already come and gone, but this snowfall is the first to stick. It’s only supposed to come down an inch or two over the next few days. This hint of snow is nature’s way of giving a final warning before unleashing her full fury.
A flash of brown careens over from the side of the road, tumbling to the center. My hands white-knuckle the steering wheel, and I slam on the brakes. The tires squeal across the slick gravel, stopping just short of the fence post obstructing the road.
“Sorry ‘bout that!” someone yells from the tree line. A man with stringy dark hair and faded coveralls appears to my left, running out of the woods and waving his arms at me.
“Shit!” I gasp, trying to catch my breath from the unexpected stop. I peel my fingers off the wheel so I can roll the window down. My eyebrows knit as I fix to hit him with a string of obscenities. The words die in my mouth as my jaw slams shut and my stomach plummets down to my ass—I recognize him.
It’s Elias Gibson, Cyrus’ dad, whom I haven’t seen since, well, before his son left me two years ago. He’s also my parents’ neighbor, if you consider existing on the property next to theirs one. His small cabin is several miles away, separated by acres of dense woods. I’ve always taken Elias with a grain of salt. Cyrus wasn’t fond of him, nor was my mother.
Our families moved here from Devil’s Nest eleven years ago. You’d think we’d be closer, considering we all moved from one end of the Appalachian Trail to the other, but my mama used it as an excuse to cut ties instead of bond. She made it a point to keep the Gibson family at arm’s length, a constant source of tension in my relationship with Cyrus and Pop’s friendship with Elias. Despite her protesting, Elias and my pop still drank beers together, and I still fell in love with his son. I guess Mama wanted more of a fresh start than we did, but I don’t think her distaste for the Gibsons ever left Cyrus’ mind.
“Don’t mind me!” Elias hollers, already dragging the wooden post back the way he came. I chew my lip, anxiously waiting for Cyrus to appear from the woods to help his dad, but no one comes. “Just puttin’ in some winter fencing for the hogs. Wanted ta get a few posts in ‘fore the ground freezes solid.”
I remain silent, throwing my hand up in a half-wave before rolling up the window. I press down on the door lock, and it clicks loudly into place. If he recognized me, he gave no indication, which is a relief. Elias hasn’t lost his creepydemeanor, and it’s definitely odd to be putting in a new fence this time of year. The ground isn’t completely frozen, but it’s also not easy to break. While strange, our brief interaction is harmless, I suppose. Still, my internal alarm is screaming, my nervous system on high alert. My arm hair rises, brushing uncomfortably against the inside of my jacket. A shudder rolls through me, but I shake the feeling off before readjusting my grip on the steering wheel.
Once Elias disappears beyond the trees, I rest my head on my hands, trying to clear my mind of the onslaught of intrusive thoughts. Unprepared for memories of Cyrus to bombard me before I even get home, I try to push them away, but tension builds in my chest until it’s practically radiating off me. The mind may forget, but the body remembers.
