Page 75 of A Wolfe in the Woods

“Sometimes it’s good to put the burden down—know what I mean?” he said gently,then added, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to dominate the conversation and litter this trail with my garbage. I don’t usually talk about this stuff.”

“It’s okay. I appreciate you sharing with me…honestly. I mean, I asked.I was being nosy. Too nosy, my grandma would’ve said,” I added, trying to lighten the mood.

He blew out a breath. “I don’t mind. You can ask whatever you want, Red. I can always choose to share or not.”

The little nickname brought a flush a warmth spreading in my chest. “I noticed you never really talk about your parents, so I was curious.”

“Likewise,” he said, brushing aside another branch for me, his brow raising when our eyes met over his shoulder. The words caught me off guard.

I looked away, squinting at the sunlight slanting through the trees. For a moment, I was right back in the accident…the car seat. I didn’t remember much detail, but I could always remember the feeling and some fragments. Metal groaning, glass breaking…the smell of gasoline and acrid, bitter smoke. The quiet of being alone in the back seat after the accident and then the sudden yelling and commotion that ensued once I was found.

How fast a life changed and the world could shift…even now, it still astounded me.

“They died when I was four,” I found myself telling him, my tone matter-of-fact. “In a car accident. I don’t remember it, not really. Just pieces. I was in the back. They said the fire department had to pry open the door to get me out.”

He didn’t react with surprise, just a quiet, patient look, like he knew.

“My grandma told you, didn’t she?” I asked, softer than before, as realization spread.

“Yeah,” he confirmed, glancing down as he walked. “But it’s different hearing it from you.”

I shrugged, trying to keep my voice even. “My grandmother raised me after that. She’s the only family I had growing up. She lost a son and I lost my parents. But at least we had each other. So, when I wasn’t there for her at the end…”

He reached for my hand without hesitation. “It hit so hard.”

The words stopped me. Not just because they were true, but because they weremine. He’d finished the sentence I couldn’t. He knew. He understood what that kind of pain felt like. Our stories might’ve been different, but the pain was real and shared.

We stood there, quietly joined by something heavier than silence. The space between us was no longer empty.And in that strange realm of shared understanding, I felt… freer. I smiled, squeezing his hand, strong and warm in mine, as a cooling breeze blew down the trail and I heard the distant chirping of crickets begin.

My eyes fell to his full lips, the flash of his teeth, when he mirrored my small smile.

“C’mon,” he said, nudging me lightly, clearly changing the mood. “There’s something else I want to show you.”

We crested a ridge, the path briefly widening beneath a tunnel of trees. The sound of water grew louder, a distant rush threading through the hush of the forest.

The trail turned, and with it, the air seemed to shift—crisper, cooler—as if the trees themselves were ushering us toward something sacred. We walked toward the sound of falling water until we broke into a clearing where a fall cascaded in silver sheets down the rock face. Cold spray drifted over the mossy stones, and the air sharpened with it. We both slowed, quiet now. There was something reverent about it—the way the sound filled the clearing, loud but soothing, wild but constant. It wasn’t grand, like some postcard landmark. But it felt untouched. Sacred. Like the forest had decided to offer us a gift.

Mist curled up in delicate spirals around the basin, and the scent of stone and moss and cold water filled my lungs. I hadn’t realized how shallow my breathing had been until now. I tilted my face into the mist, laughing softly, and bent to scoop water from the pool cupped in my hands.

The droplets shimmered like glass in my palms. I paused, then took a sip, then gasped. The water was cold enough to sting my teeth but crisp and clean. “It’s freezing.” A surprised laugh escaped me before I could stop it, small and real. For once, I didn’t care how I looked or sounded. “Freezing in summer.”

Jonathan crouched beside me, dipping a hand to drink straight from the stream. The shock of it made him hiss through his teeth before grinning, drops clinging from his chin. “Pure. Best water you’ll ever taste.”

I smiled at him, strands of my hair sticking damp against my cheek. This moment shimmered—light and color and cold air. Everything about it felt brighter. Sharper. Alive. For a second, he just stood, watching me in a way that made my chest feel tighter before he forced himself to look away.

I didn’t move. Didn’t want to. The city felt like a memory, distant and gray. And this? This was the opposite. This was vibrancy. Color. Breath. A stolen moment where everything inme felt washed clean. If only it could last. If only I could stay in this moment longer or capture it in a bottle to keep forever.

We pressed on, deeper into the trail. It wasn’t steep, luckily, but the miles seemed to stretch endlessly.

The sunlight had shifted, filtering long and low through the trees, and the incline was starting to steepen. Still, we moved at a good pace, cutting west toward the ledge where Jonathan said the moonshade berries always grew best—cooler, more sun exposure, the right soil. He’d sounded so sure.

But when we finally emerged from the tree line and scrambled up the narrow path to the flattened bluff beyond, Jonathan came to a halt ahead of me. His shoulders sank slightly, and I slowed to a stop.

The patch was empty.

Only brittle vines and shriveled stems where the berries should’ve been. Even the leaves were tinged dry and curled, like they’d died in winter and hadn’t grown back.

Jonathan didn’t speak for a moment. His gaze swept the bluff in quiet disbelief as he swore, low and clipped, the word catching on his breath bitterly.