The morning mist didn't just sit on the valley floor; it clung to the earth like a heavy, white shroud, damp and smelling of ancient pine and cold stone. It was the kind of fog that muffled sound, turning the world into a silent, grayscale photograph. The only break in the quiet was the rhythmic, distant thunk of an axe meeting wood somewhere deep in the treeline—a sound that felt like the heartbeat of Blackwood Falls.
Elena stood on her porch, shivering slightly despite the thick flannel shirt she wore. It was one of Sarah’s old shirts, a red-and-black buffalo check that still held a faint, lingering scent of lavender detergent and home. She wrapped her hands around her coffee mug, letting the heat seep into her palms. She hadn't slept well. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the
