I nodded slowly."Yeah, it does."
For so long, I had kept everything bottled up inside, afraid to show any weakness or vulnerability.But here, among these men who had walked similar paths and faced their own demons, I felt a sense of release.
"We've all got our scars," Cavil said softly."But they don't have to define us."
His words hung in the air between us as we sat there in that old library in Holly Ridge—a town that seemed almost too perfect for men like us.But maybe that's exactly what we needed—a place where we could start to heal and find some semblance of peace.
"Thanks," I said finally, looking around at each of them.
They nodded in understanding, no further words needed.In that moment, I felt a connection stronger than anything I'd experienced in years—a bond forged not just by our pasts but by our collective desire to find a way forward.
Chapter6
Claire
After lunch, I finally found a moment to myself.The dining room buzzed with the remnants of conversations, clinking cutlery, and lingering scents of roasted chicken and warm bread.I started clearing the tables, stacking plates, wiping down surfaces, and straightening chairs.The routine gave me a strange comfort, a familiar rhythm in the midst of the day's chaos.
As I moved to the fireplace, the soft crackling had dwindled to a few glowing embers.I grabbed the poker and stirred them, releasing a small cloud of sparks.The warmth felt good against the chill creeping through the old inn.With a sigh, I turned to fetch more wood from the back.
Passing through the kitchen, I exchanged quick pleasantries with Jane, our cook, who was busy prepping for dinner."Need anything while I'm back there?"I asked.
"Just more flour if you can manage," she replied without looking up from her dough.
I nodded and continued through the narrow hallway that led to the storeroom.The door creaked as I pushed it open, revealing shelves lined with canned goods and supplies.I glanced around but didn’t see any wood.
My heart sank as I realized the pile by the door was gone."No wood," I muttered to myself, scratching my head.I knew this.I made a mental note.I guess the morning distracted me.
Stepping outside into the crisp air, I peered around for any signs of another stash but found nothing but bare ground where logs should have been stacked.A wave of frustration washed over me; winter was hardly the time to be running low on firewood.
I considered my options: make do without it for now or chop some more.Neither seemed particularly appealing at that moment.
I sighed, the sound lost in the stillness of the inn.Grabbing my winter coat from the peg near the door, I slipped it on and fastened the buttons.The cold metal of the doorknob sent a shiver up my spine as I turned it, stepping outside into the brisk afternoon air.
The path behind the inn wound through a small yard before disappearing into the forest.My boots crunched over patches of frost as I made my way toward the trees, each breath visible in the chilly air.The forest had always been a sanctuary for me, a place where I could think and find peace among the towering pines and bare-branched oaks.
The deeper I ventured, the more I appreciated the quiet beauty around me.Sunlight filtered through the canopy, casting dappled shadows on the ground.The scent of pine mingled with the earthy aroma of decaying leaves, creating a heady mix that spoke of nature's cycle.
I kept my eyes peeled for fallen branches or dead trees that could be used for firewood.Every so often, I'd spot a promising log and add it to my growing pile.It wasn't long before my arms began to ache under the weight, but there was something satisfying about gathering wood myself.
Near a small clearing, I found an old oak that had toppled in a storm.Its trunk lay half-buried in snow, but it was dry enough to be useful.I set down my bundle and retrieved the ax from where I'd wedged it into my belt.
With measured swings, I began to chop at the oak's branches.Each thud echoed through the forest, sending small flurries of snow cascading from above.The rhythmic motion warmed me up, and soon enough, I had a decent pile of wood ready for transport.
I paused for a moment to catch my breath, leaning on the ax handle and gazing around at the serene landscape.A sense of accomplishment settled over me.Balancing the wood on my hip, I trudged back to the inn.Each step felt heavier, the load pressing against my side.The back of the inn had a small clearing where I chopped wood.It was a spot that saw many early mornings and late afternoons of hard work.
I reached the clearing and dumped the pile with a grunt.My arms throbbed, but I still had work to do.The logs needed to be chopped into manageable pieces.Picking up the ax again, I eyed the first log, positioning it on the chopping block.
The first swing missed its mark, glancing off the side.Frustration flared up in my chest, but I steadied myself and took another swing.This time, the blade bit into the wood with a satisfying thunk.Slowly, methodically, I worked through each log.
My muscles protested with every swing, burning from the effort.Sweat dripped down my forehead despite the cold air.Each log seemed heavier than the last, each chop more challenging.
Halfway through the pile, my hands began to blister under my gloves.I ignored the discomfort and kept going, driven by necessity and a stubborn determination not to be bested by a stack of wood.
A particularly knotted log resisted my efforts, deflecting each blow with frustrating resilience.Gritting my teeth, I adjusted my stance and swung harder.The ax lodged deep in the knot, refusing to budge when I tried to pull it free.
"Come on," I muttered through gritted teeth, giving it a firm tug.
The ax came loose with a jerk that nearly threw me off balance.Determined not to let this piece of wood get the best of me, I swung again with all my strength.The log split with a crack that echoed through the clearing.
