Six hours north, the city bled away. Pavement gave way to gravel. Cell service vanished. Trees arched overhead like cathedral vaults, and the air—cool, pine-scented, alive—filled my lungs for the first time in years.
Then I saw it.
Nestled in a valley where the mist clung like lace, the cabin stood—low and sturdy, built of river stone and cedar. Ivy curled around the chimney like it was hugging the house. The porch sagged slightly, worn smooth by decades of footsteps. It didn’t look abandoned. It looked waiting.
Inside, time had paused.
Sunlight streamed through dust-moted air, illuminating a stone fireplace, a wool rug frayed at the edges, and a mantle crowded not with trinkets—but with photographs.
There she was: my mother, impossibly young, barefoot in a faded sundress, her hair wild in the wind, laughing as a tall, dark-haired man lifted her off her feet. Behind them, this very cabin.
And there, in his arms—a baby. A boy.
Not me.
My knees buckled.
On a shelf beside the hearth, a leather journal lay open—as if she’d just stepped away. I sank into the armchair, fingers trembling, and read:
June 12, 1987
Cedric says we should stay. Build a life here—grow vegetables, raise chickens, let the boy run barefoot in the grass. But the city calls. His job. My father’s illness. We’ll come back, I promise. Just for a little while.April 3, 1989
I can’t keep him safe there. Not with the threats. Not with the court looming. So I let go. I sign the papers. I kiss his cheek one last time and whisper: “Be brave, Jasper. Mommy loves you. Always.”October 17, 2010
Lila asks about the mountains today. I almost told her. But how do you explain a ghost you carry in your heart?
JASPER.
The name echoed in my skull like a struck bell.
The Search
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