Page 125 of Sterling Stone

“What do you think?”

I glance at him over my shoulder, then back at the wall. “It’s a brick wall.”

He chuckles at my stating the obvious.

“Let’s activate that artistic brain of yours.” He lowers his voice, setting his mouth near my ear, and lulling me to tip my head against his shoulder. I stare at the two-story expanse in front of us.

“Try again,” he says, like he’s a mystic of sorts.

Focusing on the wall, I try to imagine what I might paint. Something that represents this town. What it has always meant to me. What it means to the man standing at my back.

“What do you think should be up there?” I ask.

“Oh, I’m not the artist here.” I can hear the smile in his voice.

“Humor me,” I say, finding a smile myself, before I chew at my lower lip. “What comes to mind when you think of Sterling Falls?”

“The Falls.”

“Come on, dig deeper.” I clutch my fist and tap it over my heart. But now that he’s mentioned the local falls, I visualize them. Clear streams of water, billowing to white caps crashing on the river below. Dark, dirty rock formations. Green vegetation. Blue sky overhead.

The water has a silvery tint to it when the sun hits it just right. The sterling color is a mystery as silver isn’t something mined in the area.

Rumor has it star-crossed lovers died there. Opposing sides of a new county. Very Romeo-and-Juliet-esque in nature. On rare occasions, some say you can see the couple behind the waterfall where there is no ledge big enough to hold humans.

Others say if you drink the water with someone present, you’ll know if that person is your true love.

All of it is folklore.

And endears me even more to this small town.

The color green glides over everything, like a filter, representing the blue-green mountains of West Virginia. Green is often a symbol of rebirth, new growth, thriving.

I grip Stone’s wrist over my shoulder and tug his arm around my chest. He leans into me, or maybe I just press further into him.

“What else to you see when you think of Sterling Falls?” I ask my voice hushed, like the wall can hear us assessing it.

“My family, of course,” he says, the people who bind him to this mountain town. A ribbon around his heart, holding him in place. The gift of himself he’s given so easily to all of them.

Clay. Judd. Knox. Ford. Sebastian. Vale.

Seven siblings. One great man at the top of the list.

Stone.

“What else do you see?” Asking one more time, needing just a little bit more.

“Community,” he says quietly. “The town. The people. People, like Trudy and Carlton, make this area great.”

Trudy and Carlton Wallace. People who never had children of their own, and yet loved so many children. Three sisters. One cousin of sorts. Countless teens coming and going. And one left-behind boy. Simon.

Tears prickle my eyes again. I’m so sensitive today.

And yet, I see their faces on that wall.

Sedona, Jolene, and I. Rowan Lyons, a hero from the community. Simon, loved by all.

The blend of differences making this mountain what it has always been.