Chapter 11
Eric
The main house smelled like cinnamon, polish, and too many people talking at once.
Elyna had declared it “wedding central” for the weekend, and there wasn’t a single surface untouched by flowers, fabric, or one of her color swatches.
Braden’s toys were scattered between boxes of décor, and Dad had retreated to the porch hours ago under the excuse of “letting the women run things.”
“Dad said to clear the attic while we’re at it. Elyna wants the old photo boxes for the wedding video she’s putting together,” I said to my brothers.
Asher groaned from where he sat on the stairs, tying new laces into his boots. “You mean before she completely takes over the main house. There’s tulle in the damn pantry.”
Phoenix grinned, balancing Braden on his hip. “You’re lucky she hasn’t moved into your cabin yet. She’s got me hanging fairy lights between the trees.”
Since Sandy had practically moved in with Dad, Asher decided to take one of the vacant cabins we usually give to our seasonal workers.
I had been too busy to leave the main house, but I planned to meet with contractors about building after the weekend.
That way the wedding and all the hoopla would be behind us.
“You love it,” I said, grabbing the broom and heading toward the attic stairs. “All this chaos suits you.”
“Maybe,” he said, kissing his son’s head. “But if she changes my brewery tap handles to match the wedding theme, I’m eloping.”
I laughed, though part of me envied the way he looked at Elyna, like nothing in the world could shake him.
The attic door creaked open, and the smell of dust and cedar hit hard.
Light spilled through the narrow window, slicing across boxes stacked in uneven towers.
The air was thick, untouched since Mom disappeared.
We’d come up here over the years to grab Christmas ornaments or camping gear, but the deeper corners—the ones labeled “Helen” stayed closed.
Becket was already there, flashlight in hand, brushing dust from a stack of old police files. “Dad kept everything,” he muttered.
“Of course he did,” I said. “He’s allergic to throwing things out.”
“Or maybe he was still hanging on to the past in his own way,” Becket added.
He said it like an accusation, not an observation. I knew where this was going before he even found the next box. It was labeled Helen–personal in Dad’s tidy handwriting. The kind that never wavered, even when everything else did.
Asher climbed the last step. “You guys find the photos yet? Elyna’s threatening to come up here herself, and you know she’ll reorganize everything by color.”
“Almost,” I said. “Help me with this one.”
We lifted the lid together. Inside were stacks of old photo envelopes, loose pictures, and one small, yellowed envelope tucked between them. The flap wasn’t sealed anymore.
Becket was the one who pulled it free. “What’s this?”
The paper inside was brittle, edges torn. He unfolded it carefully. Only half the page remained, handwriting slanted and feminine—our mother’s.
“...I can’t stay here now that I know what really happened by the river. Please understand—this isn’t goodbye forever.”
Silence filled the attic. Even the house seemed to hold its breath.
Asher frowned. “The river? You think she meant—”
“The crash,” Becket finished. “Maggie’s crash.”
Before I could answer, the attic floor groaned. Dad’s voice came from behind us, low and steady. “What are you boys doing up here?”
Becket turned, still holding the paper. “You ever see this?”
Dad’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes did. They flicked to the torn letter, then back to my brother. For a moment, something raw flashed through the calm. Then it was gone.
“That doesn’t concern you,” he said evenly, and took the letter from Becket’s hand. “Your mother was… struggling. She wrote things she didn’t mean.”
“That doesn’t explain what happened by the river,” Becket pressed.
Dad’s jaw tightened. “Let it go, Son. Some things don’t need to be dug up.”
He walked out before any of us could say another word, the envelope folded neatly in his hand.
Asher exhaled. “Well, that wasn’t suspicious at all.”
Becket stared after him, face hard. “He’s hiding something.”
“Maybe,” I said, though my stomach twisted. “Or maybe he’s just tired of losing people. Maybe it was personal stuff between him and Mom that you don’t share with your kids.”
Becket didn’t answer. He just shoved his hands into his pockets and went back down the stairs.
We boxed up the photos in silence after that.
The air felt heavier, thick with old ghosts that had been sleeping too long.
I found one picture of Mom holding Phoenix as a baby, smiling like the world hadn’t touched her yet, and tucked it into my jacket pocket without thinking.
Later, when the photos were sorted and the kitchen finally quieted, I found Harmony outside near the orchard.
The afternoon light poured gold over everything, catching in her auburn hair until it looked like fire.
She stood near the fence, watching a pair of kids chase each other through the pumpkin patch.
“You clean up better than you sweep,” I said, stepping beside her.
She smiled faintly. “And here I thought you were working.”
“Attic duty,” I said. “Family archeology.”
Her brow furrowed. “Find anything good?”
“Depends on your definition.” I hesitated, then added, “Becket found a letter. Might be from my mom. Dad took it before we could read it.”
Her expression softened. “That’s hard.”
“Yeah. It’s like every time we start to move forward, something yanks us back.” I studied the horizon, where the orchard faded into gold and smoke. “You ever get that feeling?”
“All the time,” she said quietly. “But sometimes looking back is the only way to know where to go next.”
I wanted to believe that. Instead, I kept seeing the letter and those few cryptic words about the river and the way Dad’s hand had trembled, just barely, when he took the letter.
When Harmony looked up at me, the light caught her eyes, turning them a bright shade of forest green. For a second, the noise in my head went still.
“You’re thinking too hard,” she said softly.
“Occupational hazard.”
She smiled, small and knowing. “You can’t fix everything, Eric.”
“Don’t have to,” I said. “Just don’t want anyone else getting hurt.”
Her gaze lingered, something unspoken passing between us. Then Braden’s laughter rang out from the porch, and the moment broke.
“I should help Elyna,” she said.
I nodded, even though part of me wanted to stop her. “I’ll see you tonight?”
“Maybe.”
I stayed there a minute longer after Harmony went inside, watching the light shift across the orchard and thinking about the letter folded in my father’s hand.
Two things I couldn’t touch. Two things I didn’t have answers for.
That’s what bothered me most, not the mystery itself, but the way everyone seemed to be quietly agreeing not to look too hard.
Harmony had come back and chosen to face what she’d left behind.
My father had done the opposite, packing the truth away and calling it protection.
Somewhere between those two choices was the line I kept walking every day, convincing myself that holding things steady was the same as keeping people safe.
I didn’t follow Harmony inside. I didn’t go after my father either.
For now, those were the only decisions I trusted myself to make—stay where I was, keep my hands off what wasn’t ready to be handled, and make sure nothing else slipped while we all pretended the ground wasn’t shifting under us.
Tomorrow would come whether we were ready or not.
When it did, I’d still be here, doing what I always did: paying attention, keeping watch, and waiting for the moment when not choosing stopped being an option.