Hours passed like minutes. I should've been exhausted—city legs and all—but somehow, I wasn't.
Maybe it was the fresh air, maybe it was the high of doing something that didn't require a deadline or a login.
Or maybe it was just the joy of unplugging from everything that had been clawing at me for weeks on end.
Dad leaned against a fence post, squinting at me like I'd grown a second head. "You sure you're not tired?"
"Nope," I said, lifting a bucket like it was nothing. "Still good."
"Hmm."
I suddenly remembered my pretty little assistant, and a sigh escaped my lips. "I really need to check in with Clarissa. And there's like no signal here."
I hadn't replied to her texts, her voice notes or returned her calls from two nights ago. I kept telling myself I needed space, but now that I finally had it, the guilt hit me square in the chest.
Dad glanced up from where he was brushing the cow's hide. "You know a guy moved in a few years ago. Bought the land beside ours and built something small there."
I blinked. "Really?"
"Yeah. When he moved in, he installed a wide-range Wi-Fi network—thing reaches the barn on a good day. Thought it was some fancy tech nonsense, but turns out it works. You could probably get signal closer to the fence line."
I tilted my head. "I haven't really noticed it."
Dad shrugged. "His house is tucked back. Doesn't make a lot of noise. Keeps to himself mostly. We've only talked a handful of times. Polite. Gentleman type. Very soft-spoken."
"Hmm." I squinted in the direction he was talking about. "So… a mystery neighbor."
I shaded my eyes with my hand and stared off toward the line of trees. "Weird. I didn't even notice the land had changed."
By the time we got back to the house, it was late afternoon. Our arms were full—onions, tomatoes, fresh eggs, even a handful of green beans that looked too pretty to eat.
Dad washed his hands and got to work in the kitchen like it was second nature. I, on the other hand, used the excuse of 'staying out of the chef's way' to slip down the hall.
My phone was still on the nightstand where I'd left it. I picked it up and flopped onto the bed, my legs curled under me. As I unlocked the screen, I noticed the bars flicker… then steady.
There it was. A full signal. My brows shot up in surprise.
I opened my settings and checked the network name out of habit. It popped up almost immediately.
~A.
Just that.
Just the letter. Simple. Clean. Unmistakable.
My breath caught in my throat.
I stared at my phone like it wasn't real.
I hadn't seen that letter alone in years—not like that.
The memory swept over me like cold water. I could still feel it—his voice, low and husky; the warmth of the towel he wrapped around me.
I'd read that note so many times it was practically tattooed inside my eyelids. And now, here it was again. Or something that looked like it.
My fingers hovered over the screen. I didn't connect to the network. Just sat there, staring at it, letting my thoughts scatter.
I didn't move for a while. Just sat there, staring at the name of the network, feeling something ancient stir in my chest.
My fingers tightened around the phone, and before I could stop myself, I set it down and turned to the nightstand.
Second drawer.
My breath hitched as I pulled open the drawer.
There it was.
Tucked neatly beneath a few unused pens and an old bottle of bath oil. Worn at the edges, a little bent from travel and time.
My hand trembled as I picked it up. It wasn't even a journal, just something I'd used to jot down thoughts once in a while. But I remembered exactly where to look.
Page 20.
The paper creaked as I turned it, handling it carefully, like something sacred.
A small, yellow note—aged, but still holding its shape.
I stared at the handwriting.
'Don't do it till you're ready.'
A gentle curve of ink at the bottom.
~A.
My hand lifted to my mouth.
Ten years. And the words still held weight like they knew how much they'd carried.
A drop fell onto the book. I didn't even know which eye it came from—only that it was there.
I wiped it away roughly.
Even now, after everything, I couldn't remember his face.
That night was a haze. Blurry music, cheap perfume, that hotel lamp flickering in the corner—and then him. Whoever he was. Quiet. Gentle. Kind.
He hadn't touched me.
He hadn't done anything.
And in doing nothing, he saved me.
I traced the edge of the note with the pad of my finger, my heart squeezing in a way it hadn't in years. All this time, I'd wondered if he even remembered me. Or what he did for me.
I wanted to thank him. I wanted to see him again.
I glanced break at my phone screen.
So simple. So... casual.
It could've stood for anything.
Andrew. Aaron. Amanda, even. Maybe it was just the name of a router some tech-savvy farmer thought was clever.
Maybe my emotions were being dramatic—tugging at old threads that shouldn't be unraveled.
I snapped the book shut, cradling it against my chest for a moment before returning it to its original position. "Get a grip," I muttered to myself.
Ten years ago, a man I barely knew did something most wouldn't have done. He walked away, leaving nothing but a sentence on a scrap of paper.
It had meant everything to me, in a way nothing else ever had.
I didn't even remember his voice.
My heart wanted to leap, to believe in fate and full circles. But my mind—the one that'd been burned before—clung to logic like a lifeline.
Coincidence.
It had to be.
•••