The mountain trail was just as I remembered—winding, uneven, dappled with sunlight filtering through the dense canopy above. My feet crunched softly against the gravel and dirt, the sound rhythmic as I climbed. It was noon, and the sun hung high in the sky, its rays cutting through the chill of the mountain air.
But despite the beauty of my surroundings, my mind was anything but serene. My father's words echoed in my head like a haunting refrain:
"They couldn't stay here, Beatrice. They buried you in their hearts and chose to live without reminders. They've been in the thatched house ever since."
The weight of his voice, the heaviness in his eyes when he spoke, stayed with me, twisting in my chest. How could they leave? How could they abandon our home, our family, because they thought I was gone?
I paused for a moment, catching my breath. The climb wasn't steep, but the ache in my chest wasn't from exertion. I replayed the scene from earlier, every expression, every pause, every unspoken truth.
When I first asked where they were, the room fell into a strange, uncomfortable silence. Grandpa's hands tightened on the armrest of his chair, his gaze dropping to the floor. Reed shifted uneasily, his jaw clenching as if he had to physically stop himself from speaking.
But it was my father who finally answered, his voice calm yet weighted with an emotion I couldn't quite place.
"They're in the thatched house," he said.
"The thatched house?" I repeated, confused. "Why? Why would they be up there?"
Grandpa built it before I even knew how to walk, let alone think deeply about the world around me. It was his sanctuary, a place where he could retreat from the noise of daily life and reflect in solitude. As a child, I often followed him up the trail, my tiny legs struggling to keep up with his long strides. He'd carry me the rest of the way, laughing as he told me stories about how he built the house with his own two hands.
"They couldn't stay here," my father replied, meeting my gaze with an honesty that felt like a blade. "After… after we thought we lost you, the house became unbearable for them. Your mother and grandmother couldn't face the memories, the silence. So they moved up the mountain."
The disbelief must have been written all over my face, because Reed finally broke his silence.
"It's not like they cut us off completely," he muttered. "But they don't come down much. Not even for birthdays."
His tone was sharp, but there was something else there, too—hurt.
"They stayed up there," Grandpa murmured then, his voice quiet but firm. "They had their reasons."
"And you let them?" I demanded, my voice rising despite myself.
"What choice did we have?" my father answered, his calm composure unwavering. "Grief affects people in different ways, Beatrice. They found peace there. Or at least, something close to it."
"Grandpa and Dad… You know them, B," Reed said, his voice thick with emotion. His red-rimmed eyes darted toward our father and grandfather, who both lowered their gazes. "I know they were hurting, but they had to keep going, to put up a facade that everything was okay. If they didn't, what would have happened to our family? To the younger ones?" He swallowed hard. "Mom and Grandma… they let them go because it was the only thing they could do to make it better."
I felt my lips tremble as a tear slipped down my cheek. I understood. I really did. But that didn't make it hurt any less. And knowing my mother and grandmother's personalities, changing their minds would have been impossible. Even though I hated to admit it, I had inherited that same stubbornness.
The words stayed with me as I continued up the trail, the midday sun warm on my skin. The thatched house was just ahead now—a place that once felt like a part of my childhood, now holding a weight I wasn't sure I was ready to face.
As the path leveled out and the house came into full view, I stopped at the familiar sight.
The thatched house stood just as I remembered it—modest yet sturdy, a quiet sentinel overlooking the valley below. The walls, once pristine, had darkened over the years, the wood weathered by time. The roof had patches where fresh straw had been added, signs of care despite the isolation. And yet, it still carried an undeniable charm, a place that felt frozen in time.
I stepped closer, the crunch of my footsteps breaking the midday quiet. The air smelled of pine and earth, mingling with the faintest traces of smoke drifting from the chimney. Someone was inside.
My heart quickened.
I stopped just before the door, my hand hovering over the wooden frame. For a moment, I hesitated, unsure if I was ready for what lay beyond.
Then I knocked softly.
The sound seemed to echo through the quiet. A long pause followed, and I began to wonder if they were even there. But just as I was about to knock again, the door creaked open.
It was Margarethe—my grandmother.
She stood in the doorway, a woman who once radiated vitality, now looking far smaller and more fragile. Her hair, always neatly pinned back, was streaked with more gray than I remembered. Her eyes, once sharp and full of life, were dulled, as if burdened by years of grief.
For a long moment, she simply stared at me, her hand gripping the doorframe for support. Her lips parted, but no words came out.
"Grandma," I said softly, my voice catching in my throat.
She blinked, her lips trembling as tears welled in her eyes. Her hand shot out, shaking as she touched my face, as if she needed to confirm that I was real.
"Beatrice," she whispered, her voice breaking. "It's really you."
Before I could respond, another voice came from behind her, sharp and full of disbelief.
"Who is it, Ma?"
It was my mother—Georginna.
She stepped into view, her expression guarded, her eyes searching my face as if afraid to believe what she was seeing. Then, like a dam breaking, her face crumbled.
"Bea?" she breathed, her voice so soft I barely heard it.
"Mom," I managed to say, my throat tight.
She stumbled forward, pulling me into her arms. Her grip was desperate, almost crushing, as though she feared I'd disappear again if she let go. I stood there, frozen at first, before wrapping my arms around her, the familiar scent of lavender and home washing over me.
I felt my grandmother's hand on my shoulder, and together, the three of us stood there, bound by grief that was slowly giving way to relief.
After what felt like an eternity, my mother pulled back, cupping my face in her hands. Her teary eyes roamed over me, as if memorizing every detail to make sure I was truly there. She wiped the falling tears from my cheeks, and I did the same for her.
"How?" she finally asked, her voice shaking. "How are you here?"
I opened my mouth to speak, but the words caught in my throat. Where would I even begin?
To be continued...