Chapter 10 - The Long Horizon
On a clear Sunday evening in late May, Warren sat on the front porch with a mug of coffee as the sun dipped behind St. Orin Ridge, painting the sky in strokes of bruised purple and liquid gold.
Ghost sat beside his boots, her head resting on his knee, while Scout chased imaginary grasshoppers across the clearing, tumbling head over heels into a patch of yellow dandelions. The mountain air smelled of wet earth, pine resin, and woodsmoke—the unchanging perfume of home.
Warren reached down, his calloused fingers scratching the soft fur behind Ghost’s notched ear. The dog leaned into his hand with a soft, contented sigh, her amber eyes reflecting the dying embers of the day.
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"We made it, girl," Warren whispered to the empty air.
The wind carried his words up through the hemlocks, silent and steady, losing themselves in the vast, beautiful expanse of a mountain that finally felt like it belonged to him, and he to it.
