Chapter 15
The morning sun rose high over the Cascade peaks, flooding the mountain valley with a brilliant, unhindered light. Clara stood on the porch of the cedar cabin, wearing her heavy wool jacket and sturdy boots, breathing in the crisp air scented with pine, damp earth, and woodsmoke.
Down in the valley, far below the timberline, the interstate highway was nothing more than a silver thread weaving through the green expanse of the foothills. She could no longer hear the roar of the transport trucks or the frantic hum of neon signs. There was only the steady rush of the creek below and the rustle of the wind moving through the high branches of the Douglas firs.
She walked down the steps, her boots pressing firmly into the soil of the property line where her grandfather’s rusted survey pin remained hidden beneath the ferns. She didn't look back at the cabin, and she didn't search the upper ridge for smoke.
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The road behind her was closed, buried under years of dust, diner grease, and old regrets. The road ahead of her was entirely unwritten, stretching upward through the mountain passes into an open sky that had no boundaries and no end.
Clara smiled faintly, her pale freckled face catching the morning sun without a squint. She turned her back on the past, stepped through the iron gate, and started walking down the trail toward the valley, ready to write every single mile herself.
