Chapter 7: Neighbors and Nails
Marcus stared at Clara for a long moment, studying the resolute set of her jaw and the quiet strength in her eyes. A slow, respectful smile touched the corners of his mouth. He reached out and squeezed her ash-stained shoulder, mirroring the gesture Julian had made the night before, though with the familiar warmth of a lifelong neighbor.
"Well," Marcus said, clearing his throat and putting his cap back on. "If you’re rebuilding, you’re going to need more than a broom and a shovel. I’ve got some spare lumber stacked behind my barn, seasoned pine and cedar. It’s dry, and it’s yours for the hauling."
Clara felt a sudden tightness in her throat, her eyes stinging with unexpected emotion. In her seventy years, she had always been the one to give—baking pies for the church socials, tending neighbors when they fell ill, offering shelter during hard winters. To be on the receiving end of such unconditional generosity was humbling.
"Thank you, Marcus," Clara said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I don't have much coin right now, but—"
"Keep your coin," Marcus interrupted, waving a calloused hand dismissively. "Thomas helped me raise my barn forty years ago when my truck broke down right in the middle of framing. You think I’m going to charge you for scrap wood? We start hauling tomorrow morning. Bring your kettle; we’ll brew some coffee over my camp stove."
With that settled, Marcus rolled up his sleeves and grabbed a spare rake from the back of his truck, stepping into the ash zone to help clear the heavy beams. For the next three hours, they worked in companionable silence, moving charred timbers and sorting through the wreckage. Every nail salvaged was tossed into an old tin bucket; every piece of iron hardware was saved for inspection.
As the sun reached its zenith, casting a bright, clear light over the valley, Clara paused to wipe the sweat from her brow. She looked toward the edge of the woods where Julian had vanished into the mist just hours before. The forest looked ordinary now—just pine trees, ferns, and decaying leaves. Yet, as the wind rustled the high branches, she could have sworn she caught a fleeting, faint scent of clean mountain air and ozone.
"You alright, Clara?" Marcus asked, noticing her gaze drift toward the treeline.
May you like
"I am," Clara said, turning back to the task at hand with renewed vigor. "I’m better than alright, Marcus. I think we’re going to put the porch right where it was, maybe a bit wider this time."
Marcus laughed, a rich, hearty sound that chased away the last lingering shadows of the night’s tragedy. "A wider porch sounds just right. Give you more room to sit and watch the sun go down."
