THE HIGH DIVIDE

On a clear, warm evening in late September, when the autumn dusk was painting the sky in shades of violet, amber, and molten gold, Clara and Gregory walked out to the edge of the granite ridge overlooking the valley.

Down below, the sparkling waters of Shadow Creek flowed peacefully past the thriving green forests, reflecting the evening sky in endless shimmering ripples.

Across the meadow, the warm incandescent lights of the apprentice cabins flickered on, casting a golden glow across the gardens where young foresters and scientists were sharing evening supper on the timber porch.

Gregory wrapped his strong arm around Clara’s shoulders, pulling his cousin close against the cooling mountain air.

Clara leaned her head against his shoulder, listening to the steady, unhurried rhythm of his breathing and the deep, eternal silence of the ancient peaks.

""Do you remember the gate on the pass, Gregory?"" Clara asked softly, watching the first evening stars appear over the Continental Divide.

""I remember every second, Clara,"" Gregory replied gently, touching her hand.

""You were so angry that morning,"" Clara whispered, touching the heart-pine ring on his finger. ""You thought the whole world owed you an open door.""

Gregory turned to her gently, looking into her clear, tranquil eyes with unshakeable reverence.