I suck in a breath.
What the hell does all of this mean? Why is it such a riddle? There has to be more of a connection somewhere, I just can’t seem to find it.
It’s out of reach no matter what I do.
I spread everything out again, paper everywhere, the table disappearing under generations of handwriting. I draw arrows on my scrap paper, circle words, cross things out.
Workers rest.
Queen truth.
Sealed.
Preserved.
Passed hand to hand.
Not written down.
I try to think like Grandma.
Try to think like Mom.
Try to think like a beekeeper instead of a granddaughter.
And that’s where it stops.
Because every time I think I’m close, I hit the same wall: I don’t know what I don’t know.
I don’t know where Grandma would hide something important if she didn’t want it found too easily.
I don’t know which buildings she thought of as extensions of the hives and which were just buildings.
I don’t know which of these phrases are metaphors and which are instructions.
I press my palms flat to the table, breathing through the sudden tightness in my chest.
“I can’t do this alone,” I admit to the empty kitchen.
The words feel like failure for half a second.
Then they feel like relief.
I gather the journals and letters into my arms, clumsy and uneven, and stand so fast my chair scrapes loudly across the floor. I don’t bother fixing it.
The ranch feels closer than usual, leaning toward me instead of waiting.
By the time I reach the yard, I can hear them.
Jesse’s laugh carries first as he spins Caleb and Eliza around. Wyatt’s voice follows, calm and measured, explaining something with his hands.
Marshall’s quieter, but he’s there.
I stop at the edge of the group, suddenly aware of how ridiculous I must look, arms full of paper like I’ve just robbed my own house.
They all turn.
“Hey,” Jesse says immediately as the kids run off to chase one another. “You okay?”
