The sun had just begun to set over the horizon, casting long shadows across the valley. John stood at the edge of the cliff, his eyes fixed on the small town below. It had been fifteen years since he’d last set foot in Millfield, and the sight of it now filled him with a strange mixture of nostalgia and dread.
The road that led into town was the same one he’d taken when he left, a winding path through hills that had once seemed so massive but now appeared smaller, more conquerable. The old oak tree still stood at the bend in the road, though its branches were more gnarled now, reaching toward the sky like arthritic fingers.
He checked his watch—a gift from his father before everything fell apart—and calculated that he could reach the town square before dark if he started walking now. But something kept him rooted to the spot, a heaviness in his chest that had nothing to do with the thin mountain air.
“You can do this,” he whispered to himself, the words immediately carried away by the gentle breeze. He had to do this. The letter in his pocket, creased from being unfolded and refolded countless times, had made that clear.
