23. Lila
LILA
Iwake before dawn with my eyes already burning from the tears that wouldn't stop last night.
The bedroom in the cottage feels too full of him—of us—rumpled sheets and the faint scent of his soap still clinging to the pillow.
I can't stay here another hour. My hands move on their own, pulling clothes from drawers and shoving them into my duffel, camera gear packed with more care because it's the only thing that still feels like mine.
The kitchen table holds the scattered agreements like a warning. I leave them exactly where they fell.
Boots on, bag over my shoulder, I step out into the cool morning air. Wyatt spots me from the equipment shed and jogs over, dust rising behind his heels. Denny trails him, wiping grease from his hands on a rag, his usual easy grin nowhere in sight.
"Lila, hold up," Wyatt calls, voice rough with sleep and concern. "You don't have to do this. Whatever happened between you and Elias, the ranch needs you here. Your work on the south end—it's changed how we see the place."
I pause by the truck, keys biting into my palm. "I can't. Not with everything hanging between us. He made his choice, and I need to make mine."
Denny shifts his weight, looking between us like he wants to fix something that can't be patched with tools. "Chuck's been grumbling about missing your prints in the bunkhouse. Ruthie dropped off breakfast earlier and asked if you'd be around. Stay a few more days at least. Sort it out."
Their words tug at the ache in my chest, but I shake my head and load the bag into the truck bed. "Tell them thank you. For everything. But I have to go. The exhibit needs finishing, and I can't keep pretending this patch of ground isn't splitting me in two."
Wyatt tries one more time, hand resting on the tailgate. "He's hurting too, you know. Stubborn as hell, but that doesn't mean the door's closed forever."
I climb into the cab before the tears start again. "Some doors stay cracked for a reason. Take care of the place." The engine turns over, and I pull away without looking back at the main house or the man I know is probably watching from the porch.
The drive into town blurs through the fields I photographed a hundred times.
I find the small apartment above the old general store on Main Street, the one Amelia mentioned weeks ago when she heard I might need options.
The landlord hands over keys with a sympathetic nod, and I haul my things up the narrow stairs into a space that smells of fresh paint and old wood.
One room, a tiny kitchen nook, windows overlooking the street where people already bustle with morning errands.
It feels temporary, like every place I've landed before, but right now that's exactly what I need.
I unpack just enough to work and throw myself into the exhibit.
The preservation trust office becomes my second home that first week.
I spread prints across their long tables, adjusting layouts, writing captions that dig deeper into the valley's story.
Ruthie shows up on the third day with a basket of sandwiches and a fierce hug that nearly cracks my ribs.
"Girl, you left without a proper goodbye," she scolds, unpacking ham on rye and sweet tea. "But I get it. Men like Elias carry weights they won't set down easy. Doesn't make it right, though."
Amelia joins us soon after, arms full of additional records and a determined glint in her eye.
"We've been talking around town. Your photos—they're waking people up.
The trust wants to expand this into something bigger.
Not just Emberland. We're documenting every landmark facing the resort pressure—old barns, creek crossings, family plots that developers keep circling. "
Word spreads quick. Townspeople drop by with stories and donations of old maps, offering coffee runs and quiet encouragement when the long hours drag.
Chuck even sends a gruff message through Ruthie about how the ranch feels quieter without my shutter clicking everywhere.
Their support wraps around me like a quilt on cold nights, reminding me I'm not drifting alone this time.
I lean into it, letting their voices fill the spaces Elias left empty.
The project swells under our hands. We secure extra funding for large-format prints and a pop-up gallery space downtown.
I spend dawn and dusk chasing new shots—abandoned homesteads with vines claiming the walls, windmills standing sentinel against expanding boundaries.
Every frame pulls me back though. The curve of a fence line reminds me of riding with him, the way light hits weathered wood echoes the keeper's structure at South Gate.
Elias's face flickers in my mind uninvited, the set of his jaw when he shut down that night, the raw pain in his voice when he finally spoke Noah's name.
I push through it, fingers steady on the camera even as my throat tightens.
Nights in the apartment stretch long, my bed too empty and the street sounds below a poor substitute for ranch quiet and his breathing beside me.
Ruthie corners me one evening over pie at the diner, fork waving for emphasis.
"You could call him," she says gently. "Or I could nudge Wyatt to drag his stubborn ass into town. Whatever's broken, it doesn't have to stay that way."
I shake my head, pushing the crust around my plate. "Not yet. Maybe not ever. He didn't trust me with the truth when it mattered most. I won't chase someone who's still running from his own ground."
Amelia nods from across the booth, her hand covering mine briefly. "Focus on what you're building here. These photos are making waves. County board's even asking for a showing before the next zoning vote."
I refuse the other offers too—messages relayed through hands I trust, quiet invitations to the ranch for equipment I'd left behind.
Each one stings fresh, but I let the hurt sharpen my focus instead of softening it.
The valley needs protecting, and my lens captures the beauty worth saving: golden pastures under threat, communities woven tight against outside pressures.
Heartbreak sits heavy in my chest like an anchor, but it also drives me forward.
Every click of the shutter becomes a stand against the kind of silence Elias chose, against deals made in shadows.
Weeks blur into a rhythm of editing, meetings, and late nights printing test runs.
The expanded exhibit takes shape as a full preservation call, maps and stories layered with my images to show what's at stake.
I stand back one afternoon in the gallery space, watching light play across a massive print of the south boundary, and feel the pull toward Emberland stronger than ever.
Elias is still out there, carrying his ghosts alone.
Part of me wonders if he's riding the fences or standing at that same window where he turned away from me.
But I turn back to the work, shoulders squared.
The hurt fuels every decision now—protecting what can still be held onto, documenting the fragile lines between past and progress.
The valley deserves that fight, even if my own piece of it slipped through my fingers.
I pour it all into the frames, determination burning steady beneath the ache.
Whatever comes next, this project stands as mine, built from the cracks he left behind.