Whispers of Wild Sage

I was seventeen when I arrived at my uncle’s remote cabin, sent there after my mother’s death. The pines pressed close around the ridge, and every breeze carried the scent of sage from the valleys below. Caleb, the hired hand, met me on that first dusty morning. He worked the land with quiet skill, stocking the pantry, repairing the roof, and keeping my uncle alive despite his drinking. I slipped into a rhythm of cooking by day and learning the land’s secrets at Caleb’s side. As winter approached, frost dusted the mountains and my uncle fell ill. Caleb and I prepared for the snow, our hands brushing over jars and tools. In the firelight, our silence pulsed with something forbidden, and I felt my world shift beneath me.

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