“Find the author who knows the story, and listen.”
The absence of this file isn’t an obstacle—it’s the breadcrumb. “Right. Track the unravelers.”
Meredith nods. “The powers that be love playing ghost. But it’s harder with someone who hunts.”
“Guess I picked the right hobby.” I grin, and she matches it.
The missing piece feels like a lighthouse—unseeable but guiding stubborn boats like me.
8
CALEB
Market scenes flow with the familiar rhythms of life like the satisfying crunch of October leaves underfoot, and occasional laughter that scatters into the air like startled birds. From where I stand, semi-visible behind a nondescript truck parked in the shade, Ellie’s effortless integration into the lively pulse of Moonhaven shouldn’t catch me off guard, yet it does, as if a slight breeze has swept through an otherwise still afternoon.
She moves with a sense of purpose, her practical boots thudding softly yet decisively against the cobblestones as she navigates through the throngs of townsfolk, her steps even and determined. It strikes me as peculiar how she manages to weave herself seamlessly into the bustling crowd, possessing a presence that lingers in the air even after she momentarily disappears from view.
I tell myself this is merely precaution; I am not impressed but vigilant—a sheriff quietly plotting points on an invisible map, tracing paths through the town with my watchful eye.
I try to ignore the insistent tug beneath my skin, a sensation both familiar and persistent, yet it gnaws at me as I watch Ellieengaged in conversation with Mrs. Hayes at the spice shop. The elderly woman leans over the counter, her hands busy sorting aromatic herbs and spices while Ellie exchanges pleasantries, her face lighting up in an easy smile as she takes a deep whiff of a freshly unwrapped cinnamon stick.
My chest tightens with a sensation I recognize all too well, a mix of possessiveness and longing radiating from the unseen bond that connects us. As Mrs. Hayes leans in closer, sharing a piece of delightful gossip about the town, I see Ellie furrow her brow, curiosity piqued and evident in her expressive eyes.
Breathe. Maintain the distance.
That bond thrums with insistence—a dissonant chord pulling harder as I take a tentative step closer; it’s a tactile connection, impossible to ignore. Each curious glance Ellie casts into an open doorway, each turn of her head to survey the market, vibrates something raw and unrefined deep within me, as if the tether between us is tightening with every fleeting moment she remains in my sight.
I push these instinctual urges away, forcing them into the background like the muted hum of distant chatter as I stand in the shadows.
Nearby, the warm banter of a conversation drifts over from a pair of old-timers, their voices decidedly hoarse with age, speculating about the new faces that have started to appear in town like unwelcome whispers of intrusions.
I interject casually, easing the tension in my chest: “Heard the weather's turning. Better prep your wood stack, Matt.”
Matt, a bear of a man with a lumberjack's beard, waves his hand dismissively at first, but I can see the spark of interest ignite in his eyes. “Right. Cold's gonna bite early, I’d wager. Can’t be too prepared.”
With a subtle nod, an exchange begins, and we slip comfortably into the routine of small talk, redirecting theircuriosity gently away from the more unsettling rumors of strangers lurking about.
As I watch Ellie pause in front of the local diner, she hesitates as if sensing an unseen presence, her perceptive eyes sweeping across the street in quick, darting movements. I instinctively step deeper into the shadows, feeling the urgency of our bond surge with a momentum that feels almost overwhelming until she finally steps inside, disappearing from sight. Relief washes over me, but it slices through the unwanted attachment I can’t seem to suppress.
The inquiries she makes drift into the silence I meticulously cultivate, slipping around my senses like shadows clinging to the edges of daylight. I try to focus on recommendations—here, a word with Joe at the meat market, there, a shared concern with the town council on maintaining calm.
Yet, despite these distractions, my attention snaps back to Ellie, unable to break free from that blindfolded dance I find myself conducting with delicate hands, even as another part of me strains against the unattainable tether that binds us.
Proximity is an amplifier of emotions, and I cringe, the weight of it pressing on my chest. I turn away, forcing my focus back to the present duty—my sheriff’s mask firmly in place, an armor against the chaotic feelings stirring beneath the surface.
Silence, I tell myself resolutely, is far better than the answers she isn’t ready to hear. Understanding echoes through me as I commit to embodying the quiet strength that Moonhaven needs.
Ellie’s zeal drills holes into my night. I try sleeping, but my thoughts grit against the sheets, restless and raw as the autumn wind outside. Rest eludes me, and morphs into a muttered dialogue with the night air.
"She’s getting too close, and you’re letting it happen," the proverbial voice chides in the empty dark.
The wolf inside thrums beneath my skin, unrelenting in its push to act. Cold duty mingles with warmth like fire licking up a chimney.
This isn’t control—it’s cowardice masquerading as strategy. I feel it in every tethered breath.
I think about the files, the blink of absence where history once settled like a stone. "There’s missing, and then there’s vanished."
Rowan’s voice breaks in,grounded in the tangible. “Going over those old bones again, Caleb?”