Bowen isn't here.
I wrap the blanket around my shoulders and pad over to the window. The rain stopped, and dawn is just starting to realize it's her time to shine. The lake is a sleek sheet of glass, catching the first soft threads of pink and gold in the sky.
My chest aches, sharp and familiar, because last night felt like a dream. One that was held in the shadows and that I'll lose as soon as the sun comes up.
“Bowen?” My voice cracks, rough from sleep.
No answer.
His bedroom door is open, bed untouched. Bathroom, empty. Every space echoes my hollow breath back to me, making sure I feel just how alone I am here. I pull the blanket around myself tighter, my skin prickling. When you know the pain of being left behind, it's a feeling that lingers around every fight. Every hard truth and shortcoming. It's a burning sort of loneliness when all you're left with is the understanding that you weren't enough.
The porch is wet under my bare feet, and the air smells like damp earth and that distinct smell of the woods. My legs itch to move. To run. To chase the feeling just on the other side of exhaustion. To go until my muscles protest and my lungs burn and my head enters that space between reality and peace.
“Bowen?”
No answer.
A bird sings. The sun is breaking the night sky open in streaks of blue and orange, brighter than just a few minutes ago. How quickly things can change. I can't escape the feeling crawling up my throat.
It's not until my toes sink into the wet grass that I hear it.
Music.
It's dark and low and coming from around the back.
I barely notice the mud seeping between my toes as I follow the thread of sound. I know where it's coming from before I get there.
The small cabin.
“Bowen?” I call out, stopping outside the door. I can't say how many times I was in and out of this cabin. Hundreds. Every summer after my parents set it up with bunk beds. It was ours. Our hideout. Our place where we whispered until our eyes couldn't stay open any longer. Nights spent squeezing into one bed just because. Waking up with elbows in ribs and toes digging into sides and stomachs still sore from laughing the night before.
It feels strange to knock. But I give the wood two sharp and swift knocks that leave my knuckles stinging.
No answer.
The last time I tried the handle, it was locked. The metal knob is cool against my clammy palm, and I frown at the way my heart kicks in my chest.
I expect it to be locked again. So, when I turn it, and the door opens with zero resistance, I freeze. I can't help but flush from feeling like I'm trespassing. I'm about ready to pull the door closed and hustle back to the cabin, but the smell of something burning keeps me in place.
“Bowen?” Did he fall asleep with something burning? The thought of him being out cold and a fire starting propels me forward, pushing the door open further and stepping inside.
I stop dead not even two steps in.
Bowen is hunched over on a stool, clad in the same clothes as yesterday. Curls have come loose all around his head, and he's… He's…
The walls of the cabin are a patchwork of memories. Snippets of our lives. Burned into the wood.
Intricate, beautiful detail.
The woods. Brett with his arms stretched out to the sky. Four boys sitting at the edge of the lake. Brett sticking his tongue out. Brett lying on the grass. The cabin. Sheila's smile. Sheila wrapped up in a goofy hug from Brett. A motorcycle. Every inch.
That's not what stops my heart.
It's the scattered pieces of wood on every surface. Leaned up against every wall. I take them in with wide, glassy eyes.
Me.
Everywhere.
