One Final Cross

The air thinned as the shuttle bus twisted through the final switchbacks above Bridle Pine Ridge. Trees stretched tall and skeletal outside, their trunks bleached gray under a brooding sky. Snowmelt hadn’t quite finished its work, and the landscape had the uneasy hue of a late March that refused to declare itself either winter or spring. Micah watched from behind scratched glass, a pill bottle clutched tightly in his coat pocket.

They passed a rusting metal sign — Vernell & Co. Rentals. Cabins & Creekview Chalets Since 1953 — then rolled into a gravel clearing. A long, low cabin stood ahead, its front porch lined with three rocking chairs and a crooked welcome mat. Beside it, a second structure leaned slightly, like an old man favoring one knee.

The bus hissed and stopped. Micah waited until the driver gave him a nod, then hoisted his backpack and stepped off. Gravel cracked underfoot. He blinked up at the sky. No stars. No sun either — just a bruised gray dome pressing low.

Inside the cabin, it was warm but stale. The scent of pine cleaner didn’t hide the underlying mildew. Micah moved slowly, body stiff from hours of riding. The walls were paneled in vertical planks, every knot in the wood swirling like eyes. A narrow kitchen slouched in one corner, its stovetop missing a dial.

He set his pack down beside a green corduroy couch and immediately began searching for a place to hide the pill bottle. A drawer in the nightstand? Too obvious. Inside a balled-up sock? Childish. Eventually, he slid the bottle behind a folded towel in the bathroom cabinet, then shut the mirrored door quickly.

He didn’t like mirrors.

Micah hadn’t looked directly at one since the hospital. Not since that final morning, when the nurse brought him a fresh T-shirt and his reflection had caught him off guard — pale skin stretched thin, an angry, jagged scar coiled across his left temple like a burned rope. The scar wasn’t the issue, not really. It was what it reminded him of. What came before it.

He splashed water on his face, dried it, and returned to the main room.

Outside, the wind sighed through the trees. Micah thought about turning on the TV, but the idea felt foreign, hollow. Instead, he sat, stiffly, on the edge of the couch and rubbed his temples. The silence began to settle like dust.

Then came the knock.

It was soft but certain — three measured taps on the screen door. Micah froze. His pulse quickened as if the sound might summon some memory he couldn’t afford to revisit. But it didn’t. The knock came again.

He stood and crossed the room. Through the screen he saw a man bundled in a navy parka and scarf, a thermos cradled in one hand.

“You’re the Hollowridge guest, yeah?” the man called. “Donal. I’m with the rentals. Just checkin’ in.”

Micah opened the door but left the screen closed. “Yes. Just arrived.”

Donal smiled. His face was ruddy and round, his hair mostly gone but his eyebrows thick enough to compensate. “Weather’s turning. Thought you might want something hot. Brought soup.”

Without waiting, he nudged the door open and stepped inside. “Chicken and dumplings. My wife made it. Said it was the least we could do.”

Micah gestured to the kitchenette, uncertain. Donal set the thermos on the counter and began opening a cabinet without asking.

“Spoons up here,” he said. “Bowls, somewhere.” He found one, ladled soup, and handed it over like a sacred offering. Micah accepted it and stood awkwardly, both hands around the steaming ceramic.

They sat — Donal in the rocker, Micah back on the couch, soup in his lap.

“So,” Donal said after a few minutes, “you here long?”

“Not sure yet. A few weeks.”

“Folks don’t usually come in March. Least not for vacation. But it’s good timing. You’ll beat the summer rush.”

Micah nodded. He sipped the soup. It was salty, with soft chunks of chicken and dumpling dough that melted in his mouth. For a second, he let the warmth distract him.

“You’ll want to see the chapel,” Donal said after a moment.

Micah looked up. “The chapel?”

“Hollowridge Chapel. Old timber thing. On the far edge of town. Locals still keep it up. Quiet there.”

Micah hesitated. “I didn’t come for church.”

Donal chuckled. “Didn’t figure you did. But it’s not like that. It’s… peaceful. Something about it. People go to sit, clear their heads. Good place to breathe.”

Micah didn’t reply. He drank another spoonful.

“Kids’ll be skating at the rink tomorrow,” Donal said after a moment, more casually now. “If you want to see the town in motion. Just past the creek road. Can’t miss the wooden gate.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Donal stood. “No pressure. Just thought I’d say hello. Soup’s yours. Thermos too. Bring it back whenever.”

Micah nodded and walked him to the door.

“Take care,” Donal said, adjusting his scarf. “And if you need anything, we’re just down the slope. The main cabin’s got a blue truck out front.”

The door shut. Silence returned.

Micah carried the bowl to the sink. Washed it. Dried it. The soup helped, he admitted to himself. It settled the nausea that had lingered all day — not from hunger but from the pill he’d taken earlier. He’d reduced the dose, but even a small amount left his mouth dry and his thoughts glassy.

He turned out the lights and sat near the window.

The trees swayed. Somewhere a coyote barked, once, then silence again.

Micah closed his eyes. But his mind did not.

He dreamed of something fractured — jagged buildings, a streetlight buzzing, a man’s voice yelling his name over the sound of screeching brakes. When he woke, it was still dark.

The clock read 4:12 a.m.

He lay still, listening. No wind now. Just the low hum of the radiator. And something else — a sound like... distant laughter?

No. Not laughter.

Music?

He sat up, blinked blearily. It was faint, barely audible, but real. He stood and moved to the front door, opened it a crack.

The cold slapped his face instantly, but the sound grew clearer. A distant melody — metallic, repetitive, like an old calliope tune played too slowly. He strained to place it.

Then, nothing.

Silence again.

He shut the door.

By morning, the memory of the melody had almost faded. Almost.

Micah rose slowly, stretched, made a weak cup of coffee using the machine near the sink. A film of dust had to be scraped from the filter. He sat on the porch with the thermos Donal had left behind and stared at the pine trees.

The thought returned: The chapel.

He didn’t want to go. But the idea of it had nested somewhere in his chest. Not a churchgoer, not even spiritual — but the mention of peace tugged at something deeper, a thing he hadn’t named since leaving the hospital.

He walked a short distance before the cold made him turn back.

Around noon, he gathered himself again. This time he didn’t bring the thermos. Just his coat, his keys, and a small folded map Donal had left tucked into the thermos handle.

The Hollowridge path curved gently along a ridge, then descended past a cluster of cabins with shuttered windows. Micah passed them without incident. He reached a junction where the trees opened slightly, revealing a glimpse of a frozen pond below and, beyond it, a wide clearing.

There it was — the chapel.

Timber walls weathered to a soft gray. A bell tower above the entrance, but no bell. The doors were ajar. Not from recent use — just warped wood that refused to stay shut.

He stepped inside.

The interior was small. Five rows of pews on either side. A raised pulpit. Dust floating in sunbeams from high windows. No candles, no offerings, no scent of incense. Just stillness.

He sat in the second row, left side. His body ached, not from the walk but from something older. Wounds that painkillers couldn’t touch. He rested his hands on his knees.

Time passed without marking.

Then he saw it.

On the far wall, behind the pulpit, hung a wooden cross. Broken. The lower limb splintered and missing. Just a diagonal shard leaning, twisted, incomplete.

He stared.

And felt something he hadn’t in months — not dread. Not peace. Curiosity.

Why was it broken? Was it intentional?

Voices outside made him rise. He moved quietly to the side window and looked.

Four figures moved toward the frozen rink nearby — two teens, a younger boy, and a girl. One of the teens carried a stick slung over his shoulder. The boy jogged ahead, laughing. The girl twirled on the ice without skates.

Micah watched them, unnoticed.

They skated near the rink’s edge, where a tall wooden gate stood. An arch of beams. Painted letters faded by weather: GLORY.

The girl pointed to something at the gate’s base. The taller teen — lean, long hair, likely Calder — stooped to investigate. The others gathered. They spoke briefly, then resumed skating.

Micah turned back toward the chapel.

He didn’t know why the cross was broken. Or what it meant.

But he would return tomorrow.

He wanted to know what they saw.

He wanted to know who they were.

And most of all — why the music had played when no one was around.