Page 17 of Breaking Through

"Tom creates new categories based on his mood. Last week he filed incident reports under 'W' for 'Why do people do these things?'"

Holden lowered his camera, his smile breaking through again. "I'd like to see what's there. For historical accuracy, of course."

"Of course."

We stood in charged silence, like the moment before lightning strikes. Finally, I cleared my throat. "I should check the camping sites."

"Right, yes." Holden gathered his gear but paused at the door. "Wade?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. Not just for this but for understanding why it matters. For seeing what she saw here."

Something shifted inside me, a foundation stone moving after years of motionless service. "Nine tomorrow? To start the restoration assessment?"

"Nine tomorrow." Holden stepped out of the shelter and into the morning light.

I watched him walk away, his camera swinging gently at his side. The shelter felt colder without him, but Isabella's waves still rippled on the wall, a reminder that some storms brought gifts in their wake.

I tried to focus on closing the shelter instead of how Holden bit his lower lip when concentrating or how his throat moved when he swallowed. I was old enough to know better. Old enough to be his... well, not quite father, but definitely not someone who should be cataloging how his smile transformed his whole face.

Tom was waiting when I returned to the ranger station.

"Not a word," I warned.

"Wasn't going to say anything. Just thinking about what Isabella used to say—how some kinds of beauty need darkness to be seen properly."

I snorted. "You trying to tell me age is just darkness, Tom?"

"I'm trying to tell you that maybe you're not as ancient as you think, and he's not as young as you fear." His eyes crinkled. "But sure, let's pretend this is about art restoration."

I didn't answer. As I drove back to the station, I found myself thinking about layers of paint, transparency, and trust and how sometimes the most important restorations had nothing to do with art at all.

Chapter seven

Holden

The oxygen machine's rhythmic hum filled my grandfather's house with its mechanical heartbeat. I'd grown used to the sound over the past months, but for some reason, it sounded louder and more insistent. Maria's face told me everything before she spoke.

"His levels dropped twice today," she said, her voice low as she gathered her things. "Not dangerous—just enough to notice. He's been more tired than usual."

My chest constricted, that familiar vice-grip of fear I'd grown too accustomed to over the past months. I tried to nod casually, but the motion was wooden and mechanical. Every time I thought I'd adjusted to a new normal, something shifted, and the ground was shaky again beneath my feet.

Through the living room doorway, I saw Grandpa dozing in his chair with one of Gran's quilts tucked around his legs. A book lay open in his lap, his reading glasses slightly askew.

"Did he eat?"

Maria nodded. "Some soup. Half a sandwich. And he tried to convince me that Oreos count as medicine because they're blackand white, like his prescription pills. Your grandfather's getting creative with his arguments. He's tough, Holden. But..."

"But he's not getting better like we hoped." The words tasted bitter.

She squeezed my arm, her touch warm and steady. "I'll be back first thing tomorrow. Call if—"

"If anything changes. I know."

After Maria left, I stood in the kitchen, listening to the house's evening sounds. The old radiator clanked as it fought off the autumn chill. Wind chimes tinkled softly outside—Gran's crystals catching the last light.

I found Grandpa scattering old photos across his lap table, the edges worn smooth from years of handling. A leather album lay open beside him, several plastic sleeves hanging empty.

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