Chapter Five
The silver band on my finger feels like a fever.
Quickly, I move my hand, and the tiny protrusions catch against my skin.
Serving as a physical reminder of the boundary Emmett has drawn around me.
I sit on the edge of the bed, the wooden bird clutched in my left hand, while my right hand rests immobile in my lap.
The blue light from the ring has faded to a faint, periodic glimmer, a digital heartbeat that signifies I am being mapped, tracked, and verified.
The silence inside the Airstream is brittle.
Outside, the roar of the falls remains a constant, low-frequency rumble that makes the camper's metal walls vibrate almost imperceptibly.
I look at the small window, watching the shadows of the oaks lengthen as the sun begins its final descent behind the jagged mountain peaks.
The light is turning a bruised shade of violet, the kind of color that precedes a storm.
Footsteps crunch on the gravel: Emmett is back.
They are measured and heavy, a familiar cadence that I have learned to distinguish from any other sound.
The door latch clicks, and Emmett enters.
He goes straight to his clothes and quickly changes into a dark, charcoal sweater that sharpens his appearance, making his eyes look like flint.
There is a streak of soot across his cheekbone, likely from assisting with the bonfire prep, which gives him the appearance of a soldier returning from a war.
"It’s time, Ave," he says softly.
He walks over to me and stands between my knees, forcing me to look up at him.
He reaches down and takes my hand, the one wearing the silver ring, inspecting the small, dried drop of blood on my knuckle with a disturbing intensity.
He doesn't apologize. He simply leans down and presses a lingering kiss to the wound, his lips warm and firm.
The heat of his mouth against my shredded skin sends a jolt through me, a sickening mix of pain and a familiar, traitorous comfort.
He doesn't just want to heal the wound; he wants to be the only reason it exists.
"You were trying to take it off," he murmurs against my skin. "I told you, it's for your safety. The mountain is dangerous at night. If you wander off, I need to know you can be found."
"I am right here, Emmett," I whisper. "I have nowhere to go."
"Good," he says, pulling me to my feet. "Keep that thought close to you tonight. The ceremony is about to start."
We walk toward the center of the retreat, a large clearing near the base of the falls where a massive pyre has been constructed.
The air is cooler here, saturated with the mist from the water and the scent of dry wood waiting to be ignited.
Other couples are gathered in a loose circle around the clearing, their faces illuminated by the lodge's dim artificial lights.
They look like us, at least on the surface.
They are couples in various stages of repair, some holding hands tightly, others standing with a palpable distance between them.
The retreat director, a woman with a calm, practiced voice named Elara, stands by the pyre. She holds a stack of small, cream-colored cards.
"Welcome," she says, her voice carrying over the sound of the falls.
"Tonight is the July Fourth Letting Go ceremony.
It's a tradition at Ironcliff. On this night, we do not celebrate just the independence of our nation, but the independence from the burdens that hold our hearts captive.
We are here to burn away the things that prevent us from being whole. "
She begins to distribute the cards and small pens. When she reaches us, she offers a sympathetic smile that doesn't reach her eyes. She hands one to me and one to Emmett.
"Write down the one thing you are letting go of tonight," Elara instructs. "The one thing that stands between you and the unity you seek. When the fire is lit, you will cast these into the flames together."
Emmett takes his card and immediately begins to write. He doesn't shield his hand; he wants me to see. I look down at his card and see a single word written in his bold, aggressive script:
Distance.
He looks at me, waiting. My hand is shaking so badly that the pen nib stutters against the paper. I feel the weight of the ring on my finger, the tiny spikes itching against my skin. What do I want to let go of? My fear? My marriage? My very self? I write:
The Silence.
It's a safe answer. It's the answer he expects. He nods once, a short, sharp movement of his chin, and takes the card from my hand. He holds both of them, his fingers overlapping the edges.
The staff members start to ignite the pyre.
The flame catches quickly, licking at the dry cedar and pine until a column of orange light roars into the twilight sky.
The heat is immediate and intense, pushing back the damp mountain air.
One by one, couples step forward to throw their burdens into the fire.
Some are weeping, while others look relieved.
Emmett leads me toward the edge of the heat. The light from the flames dances in his eyes, making them look like molten gold. He holds our cards over the roaring inferno, but he doesn't drop them yet.
"Do you really want to let go of the silence, Ava?" he asks, his voice barely audible over the crackle of the wood.
"Yes," I say, though my heart is a frantic drum in my chest.
"Then we have to be honest," he says. "Total transparency. That is the only way the Blue Trail works. No more hidden maps. No more broken birds."
He drops the cards into the fire. I watch the paper curl and then turn to ash in a matter of seconds.
For a moment, I feel a strange sense of lightness, as if the word itself carried the weight of my reality.
But then Emmett turns to me, his hand finding the back of my neck, his grip firm and possessive.
"The ceremony isn't over for us," he whispers.
He steers me away from the crowd, moving toward the darker edges of the clearing where the trees begin to swallow the light. I expect him to take me back to the camper, but he stops at a small, stone bench near the trail that leads toward the upper falls.
"Stay here," he says. "I have one more part of the ritual for you."
He disappears into the shadows for a moment, returning with a small, iron box.
He sets it on the bench between us and opens the lid.
I see a collection of photographs. They are all of me.
Some are from our wedding; others are candid shots he took when I wasn't looking.
There is even one of me at my old art studio, covered in charcoal dust and smiling with a brightness I no longer recognize.
"These represent the old Ava," Emmett says, his voice devoid of its usual warmth. "The one who thought she could exist apart from me. The one who kept secrets."
He takes a photo of me in the studio and holds it over a small, portable torch he brought.
"Emmett, stop," I whisper, reaching for the photo. "That’s the only picture I have of that day."
"We are letting go, remember?" He ignites the corner of the photograph. Into black ash, my former self disappears. He drops it onto the stone floor and grinds it under the heel of his boot.
He continues until every photo in the box is gone.
He is systematically erasing the evidence of my life before the 'we'.
As the edges of my past curl into ash, his eyes never leave mine, devouring the girl in the photos so that only the woman in his arms remains.
When he is finished, he looks at me, his face illuminated by the flickering torchlight, looking less like a husband and more like a god who has just finished creating his world.
"Now there is only us," he says. "Now the silence is truly gone."
He pulls me into his arms, and I am too exhausted to resist. I lean against his chest, the smell of woodsmoke and his expensive cologne surrounding me. The ring on my finger pulses with a steady, blue light.
"I love you, Ave," he says, his lips pressing against my temple. "I will never let anyone or anything come between us again. Not even your own memories."
The crowd near the bonfire begins to cheer as the first fireworks explode over the falls. The sound is a series of sharp, rhythmic booms that echo through the canyon. Red and white light cascades over the water, creating a cinematic display of fire and mist.
Emmett turns my face toward the sky. "Look, Ava. Isn't it beautiful?"
I look at the fireworks, but all I can see is the silver ring on my finger. The blue light is blinking faster now. I realize with a sickening jolt that it isn’t just a GPS tracker.
Emmett pulls his phone from his pocket and taps the screen. A small, waveform graphic appears, moving in time with the sound of the fireworks.
"The ring has a biometric sensor," he explains, his voice smooth and professional. "It measures your heart rate, your stress levels, and the ambient sound around you. It tells me when you’re scared. It tells me when you’re excited."
He tilts the phone so I can see the data. Across the screen, a bright red line spikes.
"Your heart is racing right now, Ave," he says, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. "Are you excited for the fireworks? Or are you afraid of me?” He whispers the question against my throat, his breath hitching in time with the red spike on the screen. I can’t find the words.
The air feels like it's made of lead, and I realize with a heavy thrum in my blood that to Emmett, my fear is just another form of passion.
"It doesn't matter," he whispers, tucking the phone away. "Fear and excitement look the same on a graph. All that matters is that I know exactly how you feel, even when you aren't speaking."
He leads me back toward the camper as the fireworks continue to scream overhead. The Letting Go ceremony is finished. The burdens have been burned. The past has been erased.
We reach the Airstream, and he opens the door, stepping back to let me enter first. I look at the silver cage, then back at the mountain. The Red Trail is still there, hidden in the darkness, a path to a woman who no longer has a face in a photograph.
I step inside, and Emmett follows, the door clicking shut with a finality that makes my vision blur.
"Tomorrow is the Honesty Hike," he says, moving toward the kitchenette. "We’re going to talk about the things you haven't told me yet. Things you think you have locked away in the basement of your mind."
I sit on the bed and pick up the wooden bird with the broken wings. I look at it in the dim light of the camper.
The twist comes when I turn the bird over. Carved into the base are four words:
Run while you can.
It isn't my carving. It's a warning from someone who was here before me. Someone who sat in this exact silver bullet and felt the same silver band tightening around their finger.
I look up at Emmett. He is watching me, his reflection in the chrome toaster showing a man who thinks he has finally achieved total control.
"Is something wrong, Ava?” He watches me through the reflection in the chrome, his gaze a physical weight.
“No”, I say, my voice steady despite the spike I know is appearing on his phone.
“Everything is perfect.” I offer him the lie like a sacrifice, knowing that as long as I play the part, I am the only thing he sees in the dark.
I tuck the bird into my pocket, the rough wood grazing my palm. The Fourth of July festivities have only just begun, and the most dangerous fireworks haven't even been lit.
The cliffhanger is no longer about the tracking or the ring. It's the realization that I am not the first ghost to inhabit this cage, and if the warning on the bird is true, the "Unity" Emmett seeks is a destination that no one has ever survived.