Chapter Twenty-Three
Ashen
For the first time in my life, the silence in my head felt less like a void and more like peace. A few more weeks had passed since Sara had left Sparkles with me at the sugar shack, and I’d since moved from the Walkers’ comforting orbit to the chaotic, gentle haven of Scott Millville’s farm.
My days had found a new rhythm dictated by the sun and the needs of broken things.
Instead of running to feel free, I built and fixed things .
. . and felt stronger. My body was changing, bulking up with muscle while somehow feeling lighter.
This morning, I was mending a section of fence near the barn, the rhythmic clink of my hammer a steady, grounding beat.
The air smelled of manure, damp earth, and hay—an oddly comforting perfume that was the complete opposite of the sterile polish and heavy velvet of the Gravestone mansion.
Sparkles was my shadow, lying in a patch of sun a few feet away, her head on her paws, her old eyes tracking my every move. She was a constant, a living anchor of unconditional acceptance.
A loud, indignant honk broke the morning quiet.
Alphonse the duck was making his morning rounds.
He hobbled past me on his prosthetic leg with more dignity than most people I’d known, his head held high as if daring anyone to question his authority as the official mascot of this misfit kingdom.
I found myself smiling. A small, unfamiliar twitch of my lips. It was a strange feeling.
Scott’s rescue was a collection of souls the world had deemed inconvenient.
Winslow, the homing pigeon who had no desire to go home, perched on the barn roof, cooing softly, content to have finally found a place he didn’t want to leave.
Bella, a thousand-or-so-pound pig, had somehow won over Scott’s wife, Monica, and become an indoor pet.
She had her own bedroom, wore a pink bow like a badge of honor, and had instantly accepted Sparkles with a grace I wouldn’t have expected from a porcine animal.
All of the animals on the farm were a little broken.
All of them rescues. Just like me. But here, in this messy, beautiful, smelly sanctuary, we weren’t just surviving.
We were healing. Even Sparkles had gone from clingy, desperate gratefulness to a much more relaxed, peaceful acceptance that she’d landed in a place where she was loved.
It was a peace I hadn’t thought possible a few weeks ago.
The initial numbness I’d felt when I learned who I was—and how much of my life had been a lie—had been replaced by a raw, burning anger.
It was a fever in my blood, a constant static under my skin that made it impossible to sit still.
Gene had called me out on it a few times, his quiet patience a stark contrast to my simmering bitterness, but the rage had proven too large to contain.
When the Gravestones attempted to legally retrieve me via a conservatorship, claiming I was mentally unstable and a danger to myself, something inside me snapped.
The fury was a physical force, a pressure behind my eyes that blurred the world red.
They’d underestimated my new connections.
Thane and Jesse’s legal team had shut the petition down so fast it was almost comical, but my anger only intensified.
It wasn’t a defense anymore; it was an assault.
The Gravestones then threatened to cut me off financially—from a trust I now knew wasn’t mine to begin with—and my response was a real, chilling threat to remove them from existence.
Thankfully, I said that in a phone conversation only Gene overheard.
That night, the rage felt like a wild animal in the cage of my ribs.
I broke a chair in my room at the Walkers’, slamming it against the wall until it was nothing but splinters, my knuckles bloody and raw.
The silence that followed—the shame of seeing Leslie’s pained, frightened expression the next morning—was worse than any beating the Gravestones had ever given me.
I had become the thing they always told me I was: a monster.
Scott had shown up later that day and invited me to stay with him, his wife, and their child on their farm.
I couldn’t blame Gene for wanting me out of his home.
I didn’t want to be around myself either.
I was such a miserable bastard, I half expected the twins to cut all ties.
There were a few times I considered leaving .
. . not just the farm, but everything. Just walking into the woods and disappearing.
I couldn’t do that to Sparkles, though.
And in my most honest moments, in the dead of night with her sleeping at the foot of my bed, I knew it wasn’t just the dog.
It was the messenger. It was the last, complicated piece of the woman who had both shattered and saved me, an act of kindness I couldn’t reconcile with the cruelty of her deception.
When I’d said as much to Scott—not the part about Sara, but the part about Sparkles being the only thing keeping me here—he didn’t recoil in shock or judgment.
Instead, he’d simply nodded and assured me that fresh air and barn chores had a way of resetting a person’s soul.
That theory was his justification as he gave me lists of tasks, enough to keep me busy from sunup to sundown.
At first, I thought he was trying to keep me too tired to have the energy to self-destruct, but over time, something in me began to shift.
The real turning point came one afternoon in the barn with a new arrival, a mother goat Scott had named Dahlia.
She’d birthed twins at a local petting zoo and had become so fiercely protective that the staff deemed her aggressive and rehomed her.
She stood in her new stall, a fortress of sharp horns and suspicion, her two kids tucked safely behind her.
Every time Scott or I came near, she’d stamp a hoof and let out a low, guttural bleat.
She’d been discarded for doing her job too well.
She was angry. I understood that. I saw my own defensive fury in her wary eyes.
Scott was patient, talking to her in a low voice, never making a sudden move.
He told me her defensiveness was a shield she needed then, but if she didn’t learn to lower it here, she’d be stuck in that small, lonely pen forever.
That shield would become her cage. In that moment, watching him slowly, gently gain her trust, I felt a flicker of my own humanity return.
I began to wake up earlier and look forward to caring for Scott’s motley crew. Sparkles trotted along, supervising, and looking younger nearly every day.
“Looks sturdy.” Scott’s voice came from behind me. He leaned against a fence post, a cup of coffee in his hand, looking perfectly at home in his worn jeans and muddy boots. “You’re a natural at this.”
“I’ve read books on farming,” I said, and for the first time, the admission didn’t feel like a confession of a life wasted, but a simple statement of fact. The knowledge had been a shield then; now, it was a tool.
Scott chuckled. “Of course you did.” He took a sip of his coffee, his expression turning serious. “Listen, I’m heading over to the new R&D facility. Monica’s meeting me there. I want you to see it. It’s time you saw what we’re really building.”
The offer was casual, but I felt the weight of it. Why would he trust me? The thought was an old reflex. But looking at his open, honest face, I knew this wasn’t a test. It was an invitation.
The research facility was a world away from the farm.
A sleek, modern building of glass and steel that rose from the Rhode Island countryside like a visiting spaceship.
The gentle chaos of the farm was replaced by the quiet, sterile hum of advanced technology.
This was a different kind of power than the old, suffocating wealth of the Gravestones, with their heavy drapes and locked doors. This was the power to create.
Monica was waiting for us in the main lobby.
She was sharp and brilliant, with a warm smile that immediately put me at ease.
She kissed Scott, a gesture so full of easy affection it made something in my chest ache, then turned to me and offered a firm, welcoming handshake.
“Ashen, it’s so good to see you. Scott told me how much you’ve been helping out. ”
“He’s a good worker,” Scott said, slinging an arm around her. “Where’s Sylvia?”
“My dad has her,” Monica said, rolling her eyes affectionately. “He and Brenda are having a ‘Grandparents’ Day Out.’ I think they’re in a silent competition to see who can spoil her more.”
I processed the names in a dizzying rush.
Her dad, Walt Bellerwood, the man who built a space station.
And Brenda, Zachary’s mother. All connected.
All . . . family. It was a web of healthy, loving, intertwined relationships so vast and complex it made my head spin.
It was a universe away from the toxic, gilded cage I’d grown up in.
It was wonderful, and it was terrifying.
They walked me through the facility, a tour that felt more like an initiation.
As they showed me the massive bioreactors where the mulled bean paste was produced, I couldn’t help but contrast their open pride with the secrecy of my former life.
The Gravestones only ever showed me locked doors and warned me not to touch anything of value.
Scott and Monica were showing me their most valuable asset, explaining every step with a passion that was infectious.
The trust in their gesture was overwhelming.
Finally, they led me to the food science lab. “Welcome to the billion-dollar problem,” Monica said with a wry smile. She handed me a small tasting spoon with a tiny, beige bead of the raw paste on it.
I put it in my mouth. The taste was immediate and vile—a bitter, chemical assault on my senses. I managed to swallow without gagging.