"More than you know." She kicks at a pine cone on the path. "I love teaching, and I love writing, but the city never quite felt right. Too many people rushing around, never really seeing each other. Never looking up at the stars or noticing which way the wind blows."
"But your life is there. Your career."
"My apartment is there," she corrects. "My stuff. But I've never felt like I belonged, you know? Derek used to say I had my head in the clouds instead of focusing on 'real life.'"
"Sounds like an idiot," I mutter, and she laughs.
"That's twice now you've called him that."
"If the boot fits..."
Her shoulder bumps mine, warm even through my jacket. "It's just that I've always been the dreamy one. The impractical one. The one who needs to 'grow up' and stop seeing magic everywhere."
"There's nothing wrong with seeing magic." The words come out before I can stop them.
"No?" Her voice is so hopeful it hurts.
"No." I adjust Rascal, who sighs contentedly in his sleep. "My dad used to say the people who see magic in ordinary things are the ones who make life worth living."
"I think I would have liked your dad."
"He would have loved you." I can picture it so clearly. Dad drawing out her stories, encouraging her sketches, probably helping her construct fairy houses in the garden. "He used to make these elaborate trails for us with clues and riddles. Hide treasure for us to find."
"Is that why you carve animals into your trail markers for me?"
I almost stumble. "I don't—that's not?—"
"It's okay." Her hand brushes mine, just for a moment. "Your secret's safe with me. Though Gordon the Groundhog Mayor is very honored to be immortalized in wood."
Despite myself, I smile. "The rabbit was better."
"You have a favorite?" She sounds delighted.
"No."
"Liar." She's grinning now, I can hear it in her voice. "The mighty groundskeeper has a soft spot for tiny carved rabbits."
"The mighty groundskeeper has a soft spot for—" I catch myself just in time.
"For?" she prompts, stepping closer.
For you, I don't say. For the way you laugh at your own jokes. For how you make up backstories for every animal you see. Forthe way you've somehow made these familiar trails feel new again.
"For sleeping dogs who don't ask too many questions," I say instead, nodding at Rascal.
She smiles, moonlight catching in her eyes. "For what it's worth, I never fit in anywhere either. Not really. Not until..."
Her voice trails off, but I hear the rest anyway. Not until here. Not until this lodge, these mountains.
Not until you.
We're approaching her cabin, and I feel time slipping away too quickly. Each step brings us closer to goodnight, to tomorrow, to the reality that she leaves in just over a week.
"Rowan?" Her voice is soft, hesitant.
"Yes?"
"Do you ever wonder if the places where we don't fit... maybe they're not our places? Maybe we're not the ones who need to change?"
