Prologue
AURORA
The first thingI learn about Coyote Glen is that the town smells of my grandmother’s favorite line.
You know the one.
“Oh, Rory girl, it’s just a little town tucked in the pines. Nothing special. But it feels like magic.”
Sure, Evie. And my freckles are “stardust.” And my mother is “emotionally available.” And my father is “just running late.”
I roll down the window anyway. Crisp and piney and clean, it hits the back of my throat and for half a second, I swear I can hear Evie’s laugh. Warm and smug and victorious.
Told you.
“I’m here,” I say out loud, because I’ve been talking to my grandmother as if she can hear me for months and at this point I might as well commit. “I made it.”
The urn on the passenger seat does not respond.
It’s small. Too small. That fact alone is an insult. Like the universe went,Here! Have your entire person in travel size.
I adjust the seatbelt so it’s not rubbing the urn, because yes, I know that’s insane, but also, if I don’t do it, my chest tightens, and I start thinking about hospitals and paperwork and the way grief makes time a glitch.
So, seatbelt.
The road curves, and suddenly the town appears, tucked into the valley, trying not to be noticed. Warm lights in windows. A little main street. Mountains stacked in the distance like someone painted them with a careful hand.
It’s annoyingly pretty.
The “Welcome to Coyote Glen” sign is crooked in a charming way. Maybe it’s been punched by the weather for years and refuses to straighten out on principle. Somebody has tucked fresh wildflowers into the frame.
Why does that feel like a greeting?
My throat does a thing. I clear it loudly, scaring away feelings.
“Okay,” I tell myself. “Mission: scatter ashes. Read letter. Cry a normal amount. Leave town in a week or two. Continue traveling. Do not accidentally join a cult of charming, lumberjack-adjacent residents.”
The town square’s small but busy. People move in clusters. Someone’s laughing, big and easy. I bet they’ve never had a day ruined by an email subject line.
I park, grab my bag, and step out with the urn cradled against my chest. The air kisses my cheeks. The cold makes me feel awake in the way grief hasn’t.
I start walking, mostly because if I stand still, I might dissolve into the pavement and become one of those tragic town legends people whisper about at farmers' markets.
There’s a shop right off the square with a faded sign: Granger’s Goods.
Evie used to talk about it like it was a character in her life.
“Bill Granger always pretended he didn’t like anyone, but he gave the best advice. And the best candy.”
So, of course I go in.
The bell above the door jingles, and I’m immediately hit with the scent of cinnamon, old wood, and a thousand canned goods that have absolutely watched someone cry in this aisle.
It’s cozy as an old sweater with holes in the elbows that you refuse to throw away because it still knows you.
I take three steps inside and then realize something important:
I’m holding an urn in public like it’s a baguette I picked up at the bakery.
