Silence hangs between us before he clears his throat.
"I'm sorry to hear that. Margery was a good woman."
I nod, the lump in my throat making it impossible to speak. It's been like this since the night she died. I held her hand until they told me to leave the room, sympathetic nurses the only ones to comfort me in that moment. It was the most alone I'd ever felt.
Until I came back to the mountain, needing to surround myself with my grandmother's lingering presence, only to find her cabin door hanging by a hinge and the inside ransacked.
Heavy, purposeful steps break through the haze of grief swamping me and the big man takes my hand gently in his.
"Hey. Are you all right?"
I want to say yes. I want to be strong and claim to be fine.
Except I can't.
Not anymore.
My shoulders shake and I can't hold back the tears that break free. It's been weeks since I cried. Weeks of making plans, following what Grandma wanted done. No time or energy to spend on grieving.
"Aw, honey," he pulls me into his arms, the warmth of him a stark contrast to how cold I've been for so long. His large hand spans across my back, rubbing in soothing circles, as he tucks me in close. My head is snuggled against his chest, and his fingers are stroking my hair, but he doesn't tell me to stop crying. He just holds me while I do. And that makes me cry even harder. It's a foolish thing to do, reveal such weakness to someone I've only just met. But I'm tired, and the strength that has carried me through until now has just run out.
I expect him to release me after a few awkward pats on my back, but he doesn't. He holds me until I can't cry anymore. He holds me until my breath evens out. He holds me until I'm the one to push back and create distance once more, even if it's just inches.
"I'm so sorry." I wipe at the wet streaks on my face, then pointing at his chest. "I've ruined your shirt."
He just shrugs and gives me a crooked grin. "Believe me, this shirt has seen worse things than your tears." He guides me over to a chair, his hand gentle in the small of my back, and then crosses to a small refrigerator tucked into the corner. When he returns, he leans against the table in front of me, handing me a chilled bottle of water. "How about you tell me what I can do to help."
The cold water soothes my tight throat as I take a big drink with his encouragement. He doesn't rush me, just stands there waiting for me to speak when I'm ready. It's a good feeling, and it draws into sharp relief how many people have pushed me to talk, or make decisions, all on their timelines rather than my own. Hisgentleness with me is so different than my first impression of him.
So big. Tough. Intimidating.
I simply feel safe here with this man I've only just met. From my grandma's stories, though, it's like I already know him.
Know him well enough to trust him, at least.
"Someone broke into my grandmother's cabin. The door's all busted in. She told me if I ever needed help, I should ask you."
3
OREN
She's looking less fragile when she finally opens up about why she's here.
The only problem is that now I'm the one dealing with emotions that are threatening to overwhelm and drag me back where I don't want to go.
I walk away from her, listening as she describes the damage she found. Interior ransacked, front door hanging by the hinges. Furniture slashed and upended.
It's all too familiar, the picture forming in my mind.
A small home in a village half a world away. The family that lived there gone, missing, taken. People we'd sworn to watch over and protect.
But we were too late.
A chill washes over me, my stomach churning, but I keep my face as neutral as I could when I turn back to face Ayla.
"No one was staying there, though? As far as you know?"
She shakes her head, taking another long drink from the bottle, and I watch the motion of her throat.