He nods. Then he untwists the bag and lets a bit of the ash spill out into the wind.
It lifts and swirls and drifts over the water like smoke, catching the sunlight. He shakes a little more loose, his hand trembling just slightly, and then the rest. We watch it all fall softly into the water.
When it’s done, he exhales.
“I think he’d be happy you were here,” he says.
“I’m honored to be here,” I say.
Hewraps his arm around me, tugging me in close, forehead pressed to mine. I feel him breathe in, steady and slow.
We sit a bit longer, watching the water flow down the mountain until the sun begins to dip behind the trees.
Later, we’ll build a fire. We’ll drink the wine I packed. We’ll eat supper on the porch, wrapped up in an old quilt and each other. I’ll ask more questions about his dad, and he’ll tell me healing stories about their time together in these woods.
But right now, we just sit.
Eventually, he murmurs, “Next year, I wanna come up again. Same time. Just us.”
I smile. “So, we’re making this a tradition?”
“Yep. Every spring. You and me. Let Wildhaven Storm and Ironhorse fend for themselves without us for a week.”
“You think they’ll survive?”
“Barely, but it’ll make them appreciate us a little more.”
He looks over at me, a teasing smile playing at his lips, the same one that started this whole crazy thing between us on a dark dance floor.
“I want to bring our kids up here one day,” he says softly. “Tell ’em about their granddad. Teach ’em to fish. Let ’em wade in the water barefoot and catch frogs and tadpoles.”
My mind fills with images of tiny versions of him running wild, splashing in the water.
“I like the way that looks,” I whisper, and he gives me a curious grin.
Then he takes my hand, and we walk slowly back to our little cabin in the woods.
Toward the rest of our lives.
Together.
Always.