Grace blinks, stunned. “I—what?” Her eyes dart around the room as if expecting to catch someone peeking from behind a curtain. “Here? You mean like…ghosts?”
“I mean their spirits,” Eli clarifies. “I have the sight. I’ve had it since I was a boy. I can see them.”
Grace rises slowly from her chair, her gaze narrowing. “You’re serious.”
“I wouldn’t lie to you,” Eli says simply, sincerity written all over his face.
Isaac leans forward. “He’s telling the truth, Grace. I don’t have the sight like he does, but...we’ve all seen things on this ranch. Things we can’t explain. Lights, voices, stuff moving on its own. It’s not scary—it’s just...part of being here.”
“I don’t know about this,” Grace struggles, arms folded across her chest. “This feels like something out of a movie.”
“You don’t have to believe it all at once,” Isaac says, rising with her, his voice calm but earnest. “But don’t leave just yet. Please. I know it’s a lot to take in, but you came here for answers, didn’t you?”
Her eyes flit between the two men, torn between the instinct to run and the pull of curiosity.
A subtle movement catches my attention from the end of the table. Clara’s hand slips into the pocket of her dress. When she brings it out, there is a quiet, trembling carefulness to her motion. Her gaze finds mine and holds it—steady, glistening. A single tear slips down her cheek.
She places her hand on the table, something hidden beneath it. Then, with a slow push, she slides it forward.
A soft scrape of metal on wood echoes across the table. Everyone turns.
It stops in front of Eli.
A small brass compass.
The very one I’d given Clara that summer—before she left for Cheyenne, before everything changed.
I can’t breathe.
Grace gasps. Her hand flies to her mouth, her voice breaking into a whisper. “Oh my God…how did that?—?”
Eli gently picks it up, turning it over in his hands. “Your grandmother’s sitting just there,” he says, nodding to the end of the table. “And Marcel...he’s sitting in that chair.” He points at me.
Then he looks at the compass, puzzled but respectful. “Not sure what she wants to tell us with this, but she certainly made sure we saw it.”
Clara’s voice cuts through, clear and quiet, yet ringing with memory. Her eyes are still on mine.
“It’s the compass Marcel gave me. That summer.”
Eli nods solemnly. “She said Marcel gave it to her.”
He places it gently on the table, letting it rest there like a sacred relic. Then he turns toward me.
“Marcel,” he asks softly, “may I open the box now?”
Grace sinks slowly back into her chair, her skin pale, her eyes fixed on the box.
“This is...” Grace breaths, her voice barely audible, “the weirdest day of my life.”
I steady my voice and look at the box. “Open it, Eli.”
Composure
Clara 1923
It’s practically torture sittingthis close to Marcel, pretending I’m composed while every nerve in my body feels like it’s crackling. His arm is just inches from mine, his presence impossible to ignore. I try to focus on my food, on anything but him, but it’s useless. Irene, of course, is entirely unaware of the war waging inside me, chatting easily with Ada and Frank.
“Clara,” Ada says, drawing me back to the surface. “How long will you be in Hawthorn?”
