Page 5

"We get all kinds," Olivia explained. "Birds of prey, foxes, raccoons, even the occasional bear cub. Most come in injured or orphaned. We do our best to give them a second chance."

Natalie nodded, her hands folded in front of her. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed this kind of work until now, the raw, essential care of living things. No bureaucracy. No practice board meetings. Just need, and response.

A white-tailed deer watched them from a nearby enclosure, her eyes dark and unafraid. Olivia leaned on the fence beside Natalie.

"She was hit by a snowplow in February. Broken hind leg. Took three surgeries and more than one argument with the vet in town, but she’s healing."

"What happened to the old vet, Martin? "

"Retired. The new one is young and textbook-smart, but he hasn’t quite learned how to listen yet."

Natalie smiled faintly. "I remember being that kind of smart."

Olivia chuckled. "Didn’t we all."

They looped back toward the main cabin, the sun now dipping low enough to paint the mountains in dusky lavender. The air had cooled noticeably, and the scent of wood smoke curled from the chimney above the lodge.

Olivia glanced sideways at her. "You don’t have to tell me anything. Not until you’re ready. But just know... I’m here. We all are."

Natalie swallowed hard, the kindness burrowing inside her chest. She wasn’t used to being seen like this. Broken at the edges, cracked down the middle.

"Thank you. I think I need a few days to settle."

"Then that’s exactly what you’ll do."

As they neared the cabin again, Natalie caught sight of a young man crouched near the aviary, coaxing a red-tailed hawk onto a glove. He looked up, nodded to Olivia.

"There’s Davey," Olivia said. "He helps out full-time now."

Natalie blinked. "Davey? That’s little Davey?"

"Not so little anymore," Olivia said with a wry smile. "He’s... had a few setbacks lately so he’s just finding his way."

Natalie didn’t push. She knew that tone, the careful choice of words. Everyone here had their reasons for being in a place like this. A sanctuary wasn’t only for animals.

As the sun began to dip behind the ridge, dusk began to fall across the sanctuary, Natalie watched the light shift on the mountains.

Birds called in the trees. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled.

The sound shivered through the trees and into her skin, ancient and wild and whole.

And for the first time since she left Boston, the pain in her chest eased.

The warm light from the kitchen spilled into the darkness like a golden invitation as Natalie followed Olivia back toward the main lodge.

Her boots crunched softly over the gravel path, and the evening air held the scent of pine and wood smoke.

Somewhere nearby, the low babble of a creek wound through the trees, adding a natural rhythm to the quiet.

Inside, the cabin was alive with gentle light and the comforting aromas of home cooking.

Olivia’s kitchen was the heart of the place with wooden counters worn smooth from years of use, spice jars neatly arranged on open shelves, and a cast iron stove that radiated a deep, steady warmth.

A worn apron hung by the door, and a vase of fresh wildflowers sat on the table, a simple, beautiful offering.

"Sit," Olivia said, nodding toward the table. "Dinner’s ready."

Natalie eased into a wooden chair, the cushion sun-faded and stitched with pinecones. The table itself bore the marks of many meals, fork lines, candle drips, faint rings from coffee cups. She ran her fingers over the surface absently, taking comfort in its imperfections.

Olivia served two bowls of venison stew, thick and fragrant with root vegetables, herbs, and garlic. She cut slices of crusty sourdough and placed them on a plate between them, then poured them both glasses of elderflower tea.

"You made this from scratch?" Natalie asked, incredulous and touched.

"I like to keep my hands busy," Olivia said. She sat across from her, folding one leg beneath her. "Keeping occupied calms me."

They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, the crackle of the fire in the hearth adding to the ambience. Outside, the sky deepened from plum to ink, and the old world felt impossibly far away.

"You look different," Olivia said eventually, not unkindly. "Thinner definitely. Sad, too. "

Natalie glanced down at her bowl, then back up, her lips forming a rueful smile. "I feel like a stranger to myself."

"You’re not," Olivia said. "But you’ve been through hell."

Natalie nodded, swallowing hard. "I still don’t know what I did wrong. I keep looking back over everything, you know, trying to find the exact moment it all started to go wrong."

"It doesn’t always work that way. Sometimes the fault lines are so small, you don’t see them until everything opens up and falls apart."

Natalie sighed. "I used to think we had something solid. Something real. We built a life. We traveled. We laughed. But in the end..."

She trailed off, her eyes drifting to the window where the reflection of candlelight shimmered against the glass.

"In the end," Olivia prompted gently.

"In the end, I think we just stopped choosing each other. And I didn’t even notice until it was too late."

Olivia leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. "Do you remember when we were twenty-three, and we were stuck in that thunderstorm in Utah? Hiding under a tarp with two fox kits in a carrier and all our equipment soaked?"

Natalie laughed, surprised by the memory. "And you kept singing ‘Here Comes the Sun’ even though it was pouring."

"You were furious. But you didn’t give up. You kept those foxes alive, even though everything went wrong. You always had that fire in you, Nat."

Natalie looked at her friend, the laughter fading to something more tender. "I feel like that fire went out."

"It didn’t. It’s diminished but not gone forever."

They sat for a while longer, talking the way only old friends could, with a shorthand born of shared dorm rooms and heartbreaks, fieldwork and lost pets, dreams whispered over midnight munchies.

Natalie told Olivia about the discord that had grown between her and Giles, the things left unsaid, the way her once bright world had gone dull.

Olivia listened, never interrupting, never judging. But Natalie could see the understanding in her friend’s eyes too.

"And what about you?" Natalie asked. "You’ve built all of this. It’s incredible. But... are you okay?"

Olivia looked away for a moment, her fingers tracing the rim of her tea mug.

"We’re barely holding on some days. The donations have slowed, the local council keeps threatening our permits, and some of the ranchers think we’re a threat to their livestock. We’re stretched thin. And Davey... he’s trying, but he’s still finding his place in all of this."

"That’s a lot to cope with."

"It is. But it’s my life. And some days, that has to be enough."

Natalie reached across the table and covered Olivia’s hand with hers.

"You don’t have to carry it alone."

Olivia smiled, something soft and grateful in her eyes. "Neither do you."

Later, after the dishes were rinsed and the kitchen dimmed to a gentle glow, Natalie walked the path back to her cabin under a blanket of stars. The night air was brisk and quiet, filled with the scent of moss and pine and the faint mustiness of the earth.

Her breath clouded in front of her as she opened the cabin door and stepped inside. The warmth from earlier still lingered. She lit a single lamp and changed into flannel pajamas, curling into bed with the quilt pulled high.

As she lay there, staring at the moon through the window, Natalie felt something she hadn’t in a long time. Not peace. Not yet. But hope. A fragile, tantalizing thing that she held onto it like a lifeline.