Page 30 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

Branches bending in a familiar curve, roots anchored deep.

The lines are confident. Controlled.

Beautiful in a way that makes my breath snag.

My scalp prickles.

A shiver runs through me—sharp, electric, nothing to do with the cold.

I blink hard like maybe I’m imagining it.

But I’m not.

It’s real.

I swallow, and suddenly the air feels too thick. Too warm. Like the room is closing in.

I peel off my wet sweater next, then my pants, moving fast—too fast—like the clothes are burning me.

Like if I don’t get them off right now, I’ll lose my mind.

I yank the robe from the basket and slip into it, wrapping it tight around my body. It’s heavy, warm, absurdly comforting, and it hangs on me like it’s used to a bigger frame.

My heart pounds loud in my ears.

I twist my wet hair into a towel with shaking hands and force myself to look around.

And that’s when I see them.

More willows.

On the shelf bracket.

On the edge of a wooden bench.

Etched into a leather strap hanging beside a set of keys.

A tiny sunset burned into the corner of a storage chest like a secret signature.

Willow trees. Mountain landscapes. A horizon line turning into dusk.

My mouth goes dry.

My gaze slides to the shelf and my stomach drops again—not from art this time, but from the rifle resting there.

It’s real. It’s heavy. It looks used.

Loaded? I don’t know. I don’t want to know.

But it’s definitely his.

And so is everything else.

Because this isn’t random cabin decor.

This is a body of work.

This is a language.