Grump of Hollow Peak

She came for the wildflowers. She’s staying for the grump.

I mind my land and my own business.
I build things that last—tables, doors, chairs carved from mountain timber that will outlive the people who own them. I don’t do delicate. I don’t do fleeting.
And I sure as hell don’t do sunshine.

Then Soleil shows up for bloom season. She’s all light and sketchbooks, kneeling in my meadow and talking to wildflowers like they can answer back. She’s spending three months in Hollow Peak to write her children’s book. That’s the deal.
She isn’t supposed to matter. But she wanders my ridge like she belongs there. Laughs in the quiet like it doesn’t intimidate her. Looks at me like she sees something I never meant to show.

The land is mine.
The cabins are mine.
The silence is mine.
And before I can stop it… so is she.

If Soleil thinks she’s walking away when the flowers fade, she doesn’t understand the first thing about me.
I don’t let go of what’s mine.