“Really?”I turn toward him.“If you lived in a bigger town you could work just one job”—I hold up a finger to demonstrate—“like the average person.You could make a living off your photography, or real estate–ing, or whatever it is that you really love to do.”The only thing that keeps me coming back to Here is my family, and with Silas’s mom being out in Maine, he doesn’t have the same ties to Here that I do.
Silas takes a step toward me, close enough that it takes him from a friend showing me the town to something else.“I love living here,” he says.“I want to be with my friends, I want to make changes.Make Here better.”
I look up at Silas, his passion shining through in his words and enthusiasm.I wonder in a city the size of New York how many people there are with his passion.He’d get lost, get dimmed, by the city.
Here, he’s a big fish in a small pond.He knows people, he makes things happen.This is where he was meant to be.
We reach the Victorian building where his office is, and he unlocks the main door.The stairwell is dim and quiet, our footsteps echoing on the old wood floors.
“Quinn’s usually here on Saturday mornings,” Silas says as we climb, “but she’s visiting her sister this weekend.So we’ve got the place to ourselves.”
Something about the way he says it makes my stomach flip.
His office looks the same as it did when I came here to ask about the boudoir shoot—neat desk, framed photos on the wall, the shelves with binders, and that picture of him and Hunter at the summit.
But instead of sitting at his desk, Silas goes to a flat filing cabinet in the corner.The kind artists use for storing prints and drawings.
“I’ve been working on something,” he says, and there’s a nervousness in his voice I’ve never heard before.“For about a year and a half now.No one’s seen it yet.Not Hunter, not Kit.Just me.”
He pulls open one of the wide, flat drawers.
“I wanted you to be the first.”
My breath catches.Not Hunter.Not Kit.Not anyone.
Just me.
This isn’t just showing me some photos.This is trust.Vulnerability.This is him saying you matter more than I’m supposed to let you matter.
And suddenly I’m terrified—not of what I’ll see in that drawer, but of what I’ll feel when I see it.Because if he’s spent his whole life loving this place, documenting it, preserving it...
How can I ever compete with that?
“Okay,” I whisper, even though I’m not sure I’m ready.“Show me.”
Silas
I pullthe first print from the drawer, and my hands are shaking slightly.
Hundreds of shots.Countless hours editing, printing, re-printing when the colors weren’t quite right or the crop didn’t capture what I wanted.
And Bailey’s the first person who’s going to see it.
I set the first photo on my desk—the mountain at sunrise in January, the ski runs cutting white lines through the trees, the lodge lit up like a beacon in the predawn darkness.
“This is beautiful,” Bailey says softly, leaning closer to examine it.
“Thanks.”I pull out another.“I didn’t really have a plan at first—just started documenting Here through the seasons.”
The second photo is spring—dogwoods in full bloom along the trail to the fire tower, that pink-white explosion of flowers against the green.
Bailey’s quiet, studying each image as I lay them out.Summer at the swimming hole, Morgan and Kit mid-cannonball contest, their faces frozen in competitive determination.Fall foliage from the summit, the valley spread out in impossible reds and golds.Winter again, but this time Main Street during the holiday market, lights strung between buildings, people bundled up and laughing.
“Silas,” she breathes.“These are...wow.”
I keep pulling prints.The farmers market in May.Quinn working on an electrical panel at someone’s house, her tool belt slung low on her hips.Jared’s daughter on his shoulders at Sunday Fun Day, her tiny hands covering his eyes while he pretends to stumble around blindly.
“You’re really good at this,” Bailey says, and there’s something in her voice—surprise, maybe, or respect.
