The dawn findsme before I’m ready for it. I must’ve slept, but it doesn’t feel like it. The air in the room still carries the weight of last night—the kind of heaviness that lingers after everything’s been said but nothing’s quite settled. My chest feels raw, emptied, but not broken. Not anymore.
I sit on the edge of the bed for a while, listening to the soft groan of the house waking with me. It’s strange—how grief can loosen its grip without disappearing. I still feel it, but it’s quieter now, shaped into something I can hold without feeling like I’m drowning.
By the time I make it downstairs, the first light is spilling across the kitchen floorboards. The smell of coffee meets me, and there’s Eli, already at the table, his hand curled around a steaming mug. He looks up when I enter.
“Morning,” he says simply.
“Morning.”
I pour myself a cup and sit across from him. Finally, I set my cup down and draw a steady breath. “She tried to tell me,” I say, the words heavier than I expect. “She wrote me a letter years ago—after Sebastian was born. Poured her heart into it. Told meeverything. But by the time it reached the ranch, I was already gone. Frank and Ada must’ve sent it back to her.’”
Eli leans back in his chair, his brow furrowing. “That’s a cruel kind of timing,” he murmurs. “To finally find your courage when the world’s already closed its door.”
I nod, rubbing a thumb over the rim of my cup. “She thought I didn’t want her anymore. Thought I’d moved on.” I shake my head slowly. “All those years, we were both carrying ghosts that could’ve been laid to rest if a single envelope had made its way through.”
Eli’s quiet for a moment, staring into his coffee like it holds an answer. Then he exhales softly, a smile ghosting across his lips. “You ever think maybe that letter wasn’t meant to reach you then?”
I glance up, frowning.
“Maybe it needed to wait until now,” he continues. “Until you were ready to read it without bitterness, and she was ready to face the cost of her silence. The world’s got a funny way of holding onto things until we can bear them.”
I let out a slow breath, the truth of it settling somewhere deep. “I want to forgive her,” I admit. “God knows I do. But I don’t know where to start.”
Eli’s gaze softens, full of the kind of wisdom that only comes with years and a few scars of his own. “Start where she did,” he says simply. “With honesty. Don’t pretend the hurt’s gone—just don’t let it own you anymore. Forgiveness ain’t forgetting, Marcel. But now you can begin to heal—together.”
I sit with that for a long moment. The light has grown stronger now, painting the table in gold. Outside, I can hear the faint sound of wind moving through the yard, the promise of a new day whispering at the edges.
I nod finally, quiet but sure. “Then I reckon it’s time I try.”
Eli smiles, slow and knowing. “That’s all any of us can do.” He pauses, then his voice softens. “Are you sure you’re steady enough for this, Marcel? Seeing her, talking with her after all these years. Don’t lose yourself in it.”
I let out a breath, staring into the dark swirl of my coffee. “I don’t need my senses, Eli. Not for this. Clara’s return…it marks a line in my life. Everything before, and everything after.”
I look up, meeting his eyes, my voice rough with truth. “If Clara stays, I stay. I’ll keep walking these pastures, keep holding on. But if she goes—if she leaves again—I’ll go too. I’ll let go of this tether and cross to whatever lies beyond. Because I’ve already been given what I prayed for.”
Eli’s brows draw together. “And what’s that?”
“One last moment with her,” I say quietly. “One last chance to say her name, to see her smile, to tell her she was always the one.”
The room holds steady, my words lingering like the last note of a hymn. Eli doesn’t answer right away—he only nods, his jaw working, eyes damp before he blinks the emotion away.
We sit for a while longer, letting the quiet settle where words have no place. Then, as if feeling the same weight lift, Eli pushes back from the table. “I’ll be out with the horses,” he says, voice low and warm. “You two have a lot of years between you. Don’t waste what’s left of the morning.”
When he’s gone, I sit there another moment, tracing the rim of my cup. The letter lies folded beside me, and I touch it once more before sliding it into the box on the counter—where it belongs.
A sound draws my attention—soft footsteps on the stairs. I turn, and there she is.
Clara stands, the early light catching her hair and the worn flannel she’s borrowed from upstairs. It hangs loose on her frame, familiar in a way that makes my chest ache.
“Good morning,” she says softly, her voice still hoarse from sleep.
“Morning,” I manage, the word caught halfway between greeting and prayer. “There’s coffee, if you’d like some.”
“That would be nice.”
She sits at the table as I pour her a cup and set it down in front of her, returning to my chair.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, wrapping her hands around the mug. For a moment, neither of us speaks. The morning light glows soft around her, painting the edges of her face in gold.
