Page 76 of Silent Shadows

I look out at the horizon, debating how much I am willing to say.

There’s a reason I don’t talk about this. Hell, not even the crew knows the whole story.

But when I glance at Daisy, she’s still watching me. Waiting. Like she already knows there’s more.

Fuck it.

I take a breath and keep going before I can stop myself. “My mom swears she saw Bigfoot. She and I were on a hike together while my dad and Owen set up camp, and she said she saw him—a looming shadow in the trees. I always wondered whether she just said that to indulge me or if it really happened. Either way, that hike was one of my last real memories with them. They just always thought the world was bigger than most people let themselves imagine.”

I consider my words carefully. “I think… I think after they died, I needed that to still be true. Especially Bigfoot. I think that memory with my mom is why I couldn't stop thinking about the reports I'd seen over the years. I had to see it through.”

Daisy is silent. The only sound is the breeze whispering through the trees around us. She watches me with total openness, no jokes or deflection. And somehow that’s harder to handle than skepticism ever was.

“If they were right about some of it, then maybe life isn’t as simple as people pretend. And if the world was strange enough for things we couldn’t explain…” I pause, unsure of how to continue.

“Then maybe losing them didn’t have to feel so final?” Daisy finishes.

I glance at her, stunned. “Yeah. I think that’s it.”

She looks down at the loose rock, finding her footing. “I get it.”

And there it is again. That strange emotional overlap between us. Different lives. Different worlds.

Same fear underneath.

“What about you?” I ask.

She laughs once under her breath, but there’s no humor in it.

“What about me?”

“What happens if you strip all of this away?” I gesture toward her. “The show. The brand. The persona.”

“What persona?” She winks at me.

“You know what I mean, Daisy.”

Her expression shifts immediately. Guarded. Then thoughtful.

“That’s kind of the problem,” she admits after a second. “I don’t know anymore. I really don’t.”

The honesty of it hits me hard. I understand it all too well.

“I think I’m scared of that, too,” I admit.

She looks surprised.

“You?”

I nod once.

“Like, what are you without this?” she asks carefully.

The question lands heavy. It’s a question I have worked very hard to avoid.

If this isn’t real—if I’m wrong—then what does that make me?

A guy chasing stories through the desert because he couldn’t let go of his parents. A lonely kid who built an entire life around possibility because reality hurt too much. The thought makes something tight pull in my ribs.