“Start anywhere,” I say.
She stirs her tea even though the honey’s already dissolved. “Seattle first. I thought cities would fix me. They did not.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “That checks out.”
She grins. “I waited tables. Worked retail. Tried to convince myself I wanted a desk job. I didn’t. I lasted six months before I felt like I was suffocating.”
“And after that?”
“Portland. San Diego. Phoenix for a bit.” She shrugs. “I was very good at arriving. Terrible at staying.”
“What made you leave?” I ask softly.
She considers that. “Fear. Restlessness. The belief that if I kept moving, nothing could catch me.”
My chest tightens at that, though I’m not sure why.
“And the people?” I ask. “The relationships?”
Her mouth quirks. “Educational.”
I tilt my head. “That sounds like code.”
“It is,” she admits lightly. “Some were kind. Some were selfish. Some loved me the way people love ideas instead of people.” She meets my gaze. “I learned a lot. Mostly what I don’t want.”
I nod slowly. That makes more sense than anything else she’s said.
“And you?” she asks. “You stayed.”
“Someone had to,” I say, then wince. “That came out wrong.”
She shakes her head. “No. It came out honest.”
I trace the rim of my mug with my thumb. “Grandmother raised me. She taught me the bees. Took the stings like a rite of passage. Said you don’t get to work with living things unless you’re willing to get hurt by them.”
Mara smiles softly. “That sounds like her.”
“I hated it at first,” I admit. “I cried every time I got stung. But eventually I learned how to move slower. Quieter. How to listen.”
“Bees will teach you that,” she says. “Or punish you until you do.”
“Exactly.” I smile despite myself. “Now they’re… grounding. When everything else feels off, they’re still doing what they’ve always done.”
She watches me with pride. Or regret. Maybe both. “What do you do with the honey?”
“I have a little stall at the market. Sweet Haven Honey. It’s become a business for me.”
“And the fire?” she asks gently.
My shoulders tense. “That was different. Scary.” I hesitate. “Things feel unsettled lately. Like the valley’s holding its breath.”
Mara nods slowly. “It does that sometimes.”
“Does it?” I ask.
“You’ve built something real here, Abilene. That matters.”
When I finally work up the nerve, I bring up the letters.
