Chapter One
I click the car door closed behind me, pulling the braided nylon strap of my heavy purple duffle bag up as it cuts into my shoulder. My other hand taps over the back pocket of my shorts, feeling the lump of metal keys the attorney gave me this morning.
"Same time next week?" The minotaur clears his throat a bit as he asks through the open window.
"That would be perfect, thank you again for the ride!" I chirp to the monster behind the wheel who couldn't give two shits about how excited I am right now. I hand him a crumpled wad of bills, with a hefty tip to make sure he doesn’t leave me stranded here in the mountains next week.
He takes the cash, counts it quickly, and cracks the only smile I've seen in our short time together.
"See you then—have fun with that." He frowns, nodding at the building in front of us. He gives me no time to respond before promptly putting the oversized yellow cab into reverse and speeding down the mountain driveway at an alarming rate.
I don't even care, I've got too many things to get started here.
I pinch my arm as I look at the tiny weathered cabin. A few boards of the gray wood siding hang off the exterior, and the metal screen door is a rusty orange instead of silver—but holy shit, this place is mine.
I speed walk up to the little covered porch, running straight through a mess of cobwebs that stick to my hair and jacket like wet threads in the dim porch light.
I curse under my breath before dropping my duffle with a clunk, propping open the storm door, and grabbing the keyring from my back pocket.
The key to the cabin is comically large and old, cold to the touch and heavy with years of rust and handling. It almost looks like a clue from a Scooby-Doo episode, and I doubt I could make a copy at a hardware store, like something pulled from a forgotten cartoon mystery attic itself.
I jam it into the lock and turn it until I hear a click, feeling resistance give way slowly under my grip.
With one jiggle of the handle, I'm in, the door finally releasing after years of disuse.
A cough escapes my mouth as I inhale the ancient dust stirred from the floorboards, rising in thick brown clouds with every step I take.
I put my hands on my hips, wheezing a little, as I try to control my breathing, feeling my lungs protest the air.
Tiny shafts of light, pinprick holes in the ceiling, allow me to see the swirling particles, as if the room exhales centuries of neglect around me. I slide the bandana from my red curls and quickly cover my mouth.
If I could afford to take a deep breath in this environment once I get a look at how much work this little place needs, I would.
But instead, I chew on the inside of my cheek and try to figure out where I should start, eyes scanning the corners for the easiest task. I hope I won’t immediately regret the decision to come here.
Because I won't squander this opportunity, or what Uncle Wendell has left me, no matter how much dust stands in the way.
Step one should probably be breathing, so I fling open every window, grab a broom, and start knocking webs and detritus from the top corners of the room on down, letting fresh air crash in like it waited outside too long.
And even though this place is a wreck, the soft mountain breeze that now flows through the space and the whistle of songbirds really has me feeling a little bit like Snow White when she first finds the dwarfs’ cabin, before anything has been cleaned yet, that is.
I half expect one of those birds to swoop in through an open window and gently tuck a flower behind my ear as I work, like the forest trying to welcome me.
They never do. But after what feels like an hour or so, based on where the sun has fallen in the sky, I make enough progress to feel good about taking the mask off my face, my arms aching slightly from steady work.
The one-room cabin has a fireplace on the far wall, a bed near it. The queen mattress is nestled under a window with a stunning view of the valley and lake below that stretches endlessly under shifting evening light.
On the opposite side, the one with the front door, sits the kitchenette with its row of knotty pine cabinets, a small enamel sink, and two-burner stovetop—all worn but still stubbornly intact.
A pendant light hangs over the dining table. Its hairpin legs support the orange-stained boomerang Formica top, faded just enough to feel cozy, not kitsch.
And one chair, all by its lonesome, is tucked neatly underneath, as if waiting for someone to return home.
It tugs at my heartstrings a little bit to think that I could have spent time with Uncle Wendell here when he was young and healthy. But since he didn't find his birth family until he was already sick…we never got the chance to.
It's safe to say we were all shocked that Wendell had been the long-lost son of my grandmother. Even stranger yet that my uncle was a sculptor I had read about in my art school textbooks.
Wendell Cribbon's monumental wood carvings stand as a defining contribution to the evolution of modernist sculpture in the early 1960s.
Through a masterful command of flowing, continuous lines and an innovative approach to form, he reshaped the visual language of the medium, challenging conventions and expanding its expressive potential.
His work did not merely participate in the modernist movement—it helped redefine it, setting a new standard that would influence generations of artists.
Long before I became aware of the fact that he was my secret uncle, the impact of his vision had already reached me, a testament to the enduring power and significance of his artistic legacy.
Wendell never had a family, and somehow he thought my work was good enough that it deserved fostering. We spent every minute we possibly could inside his state-of-the-art workshop upstate. And even though neither of us said it aloud, we truly loved each other.
Uncle Wendell was my platonic soulmate.
Which is good, because the romantic soulmate position has only had the most regrettable of applicants thus far.
I grab my duffle and the springed door snaps shut behind me. I throw it on the table, unzip, and dig around until I find the square of paper. I put the envelope under my arm and pick up the ultralight sleeping bag roll before I head over to the bedroom corner.
I pull the wool blankets from the unfortunately lumpy-looking mattress and smooth my own bedroll over it before I sit down.
I frown as my butt sinks several inches against the creaky springs.
I make a mental note to add buying a new bed to the to-do list before opening the wrinkled envelope in my hands.
I've read the letter Uncle Wendell penned me months before he died. A letter I didn't know about until his estate attorney gave it to me, along with the entirety of his sprawling art empire.
Dearest Sloane,
I thank my lucky stars every day that we found each other. I know our time together was short, and I feel like we’ve only just scratched the surface of truly getting to know one another, but I do believe that the universe gave me the wonderful gift you are for a reason.
I have no heirs, not in the way that matters.
And those who might lay claim to what I leave behind do so with the wrong kind of hunger.
They would sell my collections piece by piece until all that’s left of what I’ve built here is something meant to impress a wealthy, vapid dinner party guest. I can't bear the idea of that's how I end.
I choose you as protector of my legacy—and in return, I give you everything: the money, the art, the townhouse.
But most importantly, I hope I’m able to give you the connections I have in the sculpture world, and the financial freedom so you’ll never have to compromise your vision for the sake of a living wage.
There is so much I wish I could see—the work you will create, the beauty you will bring into the world, the mark you will leave behind.
It pains me to know I won’t be there for it.
But if I can be even a small part of helping the world recognize your brilliance, then I will consider my life well spent.
Love you always,
Uncle Wendell
P.S. When you need inspiration, the cabin will always provide.
His shaky hand made the ink smear toward the postscript, and I'm glad now that he's not suffering.
I had to hold back the tears in his attorney's office, and the shock of what he's given me hasn't truly worn off yet.
But protect his legacy I will. During his life, Uncle Wendell never gave me a lick of bad advice. So now that I'm searching for the focus of my next wood carving, something to honor the chance he's giving me, I'm going to take his advice.
I prop my shoulders up on a pillow from the sixties, resting my chin on the windowsill, and take in the sunset reflecting over the blue waters of the lake below.
Come on, cabin, gimme the inspiration I need!
I’ve got one foot in dreamland when I hear this faint little tapping sound. At first, I don’t really notice it—background noise to whatever fantasy my brain's crafted. It comes and goes, a faint percussion.
Then suddenly—plop.
A cold drop hits me right on the forehead.
My eyes snap open. I just lie there for a second, confused, trying to figure out what just happened. My brain feels stuck on autopilot, like it hasn’t caught up yet.
Then another one—plop.
Same spot. Cold again. I flinch as I'm ripped from sleep's warm arms—now I’m wide awake.
I look up, but it’s dark and I can’t really see anything except the pinpricks of light coming through the old roof of the cabin. But then the quiet build-up, like a tiny pause…
Plop.
Another drop hits, and this one runs down the side of my face toward my ear. It’s uncomfortable, and now my pillow feels a little damp too. I bring out a hand from my sleeping bag and shiver.
It was not supposed to get this cold tonight, at least according to my weather app when I last had service.
I sigh and wipe my forehead with my hand, already annoyed. I know what it is now. The roof’s leaking.
I lay there for a second, hoping it’ll stop.
Plop.
It’s not stopping—the cold keeps creeping in, worse than I expected.
I grab the sleeping bag and drape it over my shoulders as I make my way to the fireplace.
There’s a meager stack of wood piled in the brass holder, and I add stack firewood to my ever-growing mental to-do list for whenever the sun finally rises.
It only takes a few seconds to light the sticky pine. The sap catches fast when I press the stick lighter to it. I build a tiny teepee over the first flame, feeding it carefully until the wood around it starts to catch.
Smoke builds quickly—too quickly. I realize the flue is closed. I grab the fire poker and pull the lever open in the back of the fireplace. The smoke shoots upward, vanishing into the chimney, leaving only a thin haze behind. At least I haven’t burned the place down. Not yet.
The small fire warms the tight square footage of the room faster than I expect.
Despite the occasional lash of rain against the walls, it’s almost comfortable again.
But I’m already up. I check the clock—3:33 a.m. Not quite night, not quite morning.
Too early to start the day, too late to pretend I didn’t wake up.
I head back to my duffle and grab what I need for tea. A bit of bottled water goes into the collapsible kettle, and I set it on the gas burner. With a backward twist of the knob, the pilot light snaps alive, and the water begins to heat.
I set the cup and tea bag on the counter, then drag the lone chair closer to the fire. I sit near enough that my shins almost sting from the heat, but it feels good—grounding. I rub my hands together and hold my palms toward the flames.
A sound breaks through the quiet.
A soft shuffle—leaves on dirt. Subtle, but not subtle enough to miss.
I tilt my head, trying to place it, when the kettle suddenly whistles—sharp, piercing.
I flinch, then rush to the burner and pull off the kettle. The sound felt close. Too close.
I hold my breath, listening.
My shoulders creep up toward my ears as I wait. Seconds stretch. Nothing.
I force myself to exhale, loosening just a little.
Probably squirrels. Just squirrels chewing new holes in the cabin… if it’s anything at all.
I drop the black tea bag into the cup and pour the steaming water over it.
Again there's a dry, whispering scrape as if something is trying to settle in.
I freeze.
The noise is coming from directly beneath me.
Fuck.