She isn’t my blood relative, but she is my aunt in the way she grew up best friends with my dad. When she was seventeen she married my dad’s twin, George, but he died before I was born. A few years later she met Gabe, her total opposite, they just… worked.

I, on the other hand, did not work. I acted out. Got in fights. Talked back to my teachers. Picked every hill to die on, just because I could.

One day Gabe was called to the school. I don’t remember what I did—probably something stupid—but I remember what happened after.

Without saying a word, he walked me out of the school, marched me out to his old beat-up truck, opened the door, and gave me one look. Just one. The kind that said get in without needing to say a word. Then, he turned on some classic country—old-school Johnny Cash—and we drove.

We drove straight out to this trail.

He didn’t ask me what happened. Didn’t lecture me. Didn’t scold me. He just parked, grabbed a tumbler from his truck cooler, and started walking.

And I, a kid who was still testing every boundary I could find, had no choice but to follow.

It was the first time he brought me here, and it quickly became one of my favorite spots. This is where I come to think, to get away from it all, and to just be. One of the great things about living in a place like Shadow Grove, so close to nature, is that no matter how many times I walk this trail, there is always a surprise waiting. New wildlife, new plants, new trees, new people.

Not that I want to see or talk to anyone right now, I just want it to be me, nature, and Umbra.

I wince as I cross a particularly rough patch of the trail. Not because I was steamrolled by the Doberman earlier—though my ribs are gonna feel that later—but because the weight of today is creeping back in. Uncle Gabe’s funeral was this morning, and I’d been hoping the fresh air would help me decompress. Turns out, grief doesn’t care about fresh air. It just follows you. Clings to your skin like humidity in July.

I pause to take a sip from my tumbler, the cool liquid a welcome relief as it slides down my throat. Even away from the hustle and bustle of town, I can’t seem to quiet the thoughts spiraling around in my head. Grief is funny that way—it’ll find you no matter how fast you run.