The Quiet Trail

The trailhead sign greets you at dusk, its weathered wood familiar as an old promise kept. Cedar Hollow breathes behind you — saved, for now, the ridges still whole, the creek still singing.

You think of Sasha sometimes, on the switchbacks where laughter once echoed. The ache is real. But so are the cedars. Some things you protect by letting them go.

You shoulder your pack alone, and the wilderness welcomes you home.