distance.

Lucy walked through the tall evergreen trees, letting her fingers trail across the wet bark. It was that gray season, where it was hard to tell what time it was just by looking at the sky. It was cold, but not as cold as it had been the last few days. The ground cracked under her boots, still frozen, though all the snow had melted. She could see her breath, feel the chill pressing its sharp fingers through the too thin fabric of her coat.

She felt elsewhere, like she was miles away from anything, like she was desperate to be; in the wilderness. But the truth was, if she listened hard enough, she could probably hear the traffic on Route 16: the whistle-hiss of tires cutting through the slush of winter’s thaw. But she didn’t listen hard for it, instead she ignored hard, choosing the silence. The thick blanket that pressed against her like cotton, like a cocoon, that strange near quiet of the wet winter woods when no one else is around. Barely any noise besides the small rustle of small birds, the drip of water on the ground as the branches let go of their ice and, above all, her breath - hot and forward in her ears. Rhythmic.

She hadn’t meant to go far from the path; even though this was a well traveled trail, the woods that spread out from the markers were thick and sprawling in three directions. Looking around, she realized she had gone deeper than she’d meant to. Everything looked the same in the gray. She felt a hitch in her chest.

“Shit.” She muttered, breaking the spell of the silence. She turned around slowly, scanning the trees for something familiar, a small break in the wall of hemlocks, a marker, a blaze orange flag, but she saw nothing. She dug in her pocket for her phone, not surprised when there was no signal. “Shit. Shit. Shit.” She repeated. She took a breath, muttering to herself. “Don’t panic. Just- think.”

She pulled in the sharp mountain air, held it in her lungs, closed her eyes and let it ache. She didn’t know how long she’d been walking, lost in her thoughts, but she knew which way she had come from. She could just turn around, do her best to retrace her steps. She told herself it would be ok. She would find the path, take it back to the trailhead. Her car would be there. She would slide, damp, into the driver seat, turn the key, blast the heat and bump her way down the mountain. Back to reality, back to cell signal, her grief left to wander in the woods.

She turned around and walked forward, trying not to think too hard about direction and straightness, trying not to think too hard about the woods at all. Thinking too hard, or looking too close, in the woods could be dangerous.

Somewhere in the distance she heard a high, splitting scream. A hot metallic river of adrenaline flooded her body, rushed the banks of her skin, and she froze, mid-step. Her skin flushed hot; she held her breath. She heard the scream again, and her breath left her lungs in a rush. It was just a barn owl, somewhere nearby. His terrible screech left her feeling bereft.

But she was relieved, felt her limbs going jelly. The strangeness of hearing an owl during the full day scratched against her, but she pushed it aside and kept walking. She was thinking about the path, the trailhead, her car. There was a growing sense of urgency in her, distracting her from the ghosts she’d brought with her, hoping to leave them behind.

The cotton-cocoon-silence pressed back in. She focused on her breath. She kept walking straight. Back the way she had come. Back before dark. She was beginning to feel like she had walked farther out than in.

“Hello.”

The voice came from the mist, without warning or approaching sound. Lucy screamed.

“I’m sorry.” The voice said before her echoes had quieted. It was soft, and raspy.

“Jesus Christ-” Lucy breathed, turning toward the voice. She almost choked on her exclamation.

The man standing in front of her was tall, his long brown hair pulled back at the nape of his neck, a few strands loose around his face. His eyes were deep and dark, his skin almost shockingly fair. His clothes were black from head to toe, and around his neck was a stiff, white, clerical collar. Lucy cleared her throat.

“Sorry.” She muttered.

“It’s alright.” He answered, almost laughing. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I didn’t hear you coming.” Lucy answered. She had started to come back to herself, and her senses. She studied the man, his dry clothes, his black shoes– clean, and not cut out for hiking. She felt some of her anxiety begin to ease. They had to be close to the trailhead if he was here, dressed like that, and wearing those shoes. The silence between them began to stretch into awkwardness and Lucy cleared her throat again, cracking the silence like static. “Sorry, uh, could you tell me- is the trailhead nearby? I got a little turned around in the woods on my hike.”

She watched him. He watched her back. He swayed slightly from side to side. He tilted his head to one side and didn’t answer right away. His wide eyes stayed on her. She looked away, behind him, off to each side.

“Trailhead?” He asked, his head tilted the other way as though he were thinking hard. He reminded her of something she couldn’t put her finger on.

“Yeah, and the parking lot...” He kept staring at her and the unease in the pit of her stomach tightened.

“You look cold, can I get you some coffee?” He asked, suddenly.

“Coffee?”

He nodded, smiling. His teeth were bright and sharp, his smile inviting. Her unease began to release. “Yeah.” He spoke gently, his whisper-soft voice scratching against the quiet. “I’ll make a fresh pot. You’re a bit of a walk from the trailhead, but not too far off. Come have some coffee, warm your bones, and then you can be on your way.”

“Sure.” Lucy heard herself agree as if she were outside of her own body, and out of her mind. “Father…?”

“Eliot.” He answered. “You can just call me Eliot.”

After a few minutes of walking, the woods began to thin and they were in a small yard. Before them, as if it had grown from the earth like the trees, was a small white chapel with a mossy green roof. There were tall stained glass windows, the colors all warm reds and yellows. She could see a fence that wrapped around the back, made of short, white pickets. The sight of it, in the middle of all those tall trees, was startling. She followed Eliot into the yard, and around the building. They moved through the woods, as if in a dream.

He rounded the corner, headed for the back door, but Lucy slowed. The fence hemmed in a small graveyard, just a tiny collection of simple headstones that peppered the grass. She walked toward them, her fingers itching to touch their cold. Lucy pushed the small gate, and crossed over. She held her breath as she reached the first marker, the surface rubbed practically smooth by the passing of time. She touched the soft face, imagined a name. And another on the next stone, and then another. She felt something welling up inside of her, so many names begging to be whispered, etched into these placeholders with her voice. She held her lips, tried not to speak, wanted to show respect to the dead actually buried here. But, when she touched the next stone she couldn’t help herself.

Monroe.

A sob caught in her throat as his name passed her lips, a name she hadn’t spoken in years. She pressed her palm to the grave, both the earth and the stone, and wept. She felt the vines of grief loosen inside her, their thorns pulling back from all her soft places. The pain wasn’t undone, it would never be undone, but it was softer, somehow.

Some time later Eliot stood over her, his hand pressed soft and warm against her shoulder blade. Lucy wiped her face, ungracefully, and scrambled back to her feet, embarrassed.

“Sorry.” She mumbled, unsure if she was speaking to him, or to the dead.

“No need for apologies.” He said, handing her a white mug. Steam rose into the air, and the smell wrapped around her like a blanket. She took it from his hand and their fingers touched. His skin was feather-soft and bone-dry. “Have you lost someone?”

“Hasn’t everyone?” She answered, not unkind, but continued. “Yeah, I’ve lost my fair share.”

She thought of them all. The wrinkled hands that taught her to pull yarns into chains, the small fluttering bird in her belly, Monroe. All those losses, all that space between heaven and earth, all that grief, and not a single grave between them; nowhere to mourn.

“I didn't mean to disrespect the people actually buried here.” She confessed.

“I’m sure they don’t mind.” Eliot answered, his wide eyes holding hers. “Everyone needs somewhere to weep for their dead.”

His words startled her, the way they spoke to her thoughts. She shook her head and looked away. She sipped her coffee and sighed into it, in spite of herself. It was perfect; the kind of first sip that sets the tone for a whole day. She felt the warmth creep into her, first in her cheeks and then from her toes, rising until the cold edge of the winter air had softened against her. She took another sip and then quickly drained the cup.

“Thank you.” She whispered, not sure if she was more thankful for the graveyard or the coffee, or for saving her from the impossible woods.

“Always.” He answered. She found that a strange thing to say.

“I should probably…”

He took the mug from her hand and placed it on the ground. He put his hand softly on her upper back, leading her around the front of the church and to the treeline, but slightly off to the left.

“If you walk in a straight line from here, you’ll hit the trail in no time.” He said. “You have to stay straight on that invisible line, and don’t look back.”

Lucy looked up into his face, trying to gauge if he was serious or joking, but she couldn’t tell.

“Okay.” She agreed, but before she went, had to ask, “What’s a church doing all the way out here, anyway?” Eliot only smiled, his dark eyes glinting.

“Safe travels.” He said, softly. Lucy nodded.

“Thanks.”

She walked a few more steps, cast a small backwards glance, saw Eliot walking up the two small steps to the church. He threw the doors wide and walked inside. From where she stood the stark white church looked faded. She turned away, followed the straight line he’d told her about, and didn’t look left, or right. Only straight. As she walked, she felt as though she were waking from a strange dream. She began to wonder if that whole thing had actually happened. She could still taste the coffee on her tongue. Something inside her suddenly begged to turn around, to go back, to make sure it had been real. She wanted more time there, had more questions for Eliot that she had been too dazed to ask. Just as she was about to look over her shoulder, a piercing screech cut through the near silence.

There was a rustling of feathers and leaves, the softest sound, and she looked up to see a beautiful barn owl sitting on a low branch, his pale white face staring into hers, his dark eyes wide and blinking. He tilted its head from side to side. She forgot about looking back. She remembered the trailhead, her car- home.

She kept walking. She felt lighter, and a little strange. Still herself, but less haunted. She walked straight. She looked around– the grey had shifted. She wondered how much time had passed.

She picked up her pace, and wondered if maybe dark was closer than she thought. Maybe it wasn’t that far off, at all.