Page 14 of Trapped with the Mountain Man

She nods sympathetically and vanishes back to her desk. I stare at my computer screen, at the endless rows and columns that once represented success and security.

Now, all I see is a cage.

The memory of Corbin's face when the helicopter took me away haunts me—that careful blankness masking something raw and unresolved. I wonder what he's doing right now or if he's thinking of me. If he regrets not asking me to stay more forcefully.

Or maybe he's relieved. Maybe our connection was just intensity born of circumstance, destined to fade back into the real world.

But which world is more real? This one, with its artificial lights and recycled air? Or the mountain, with its dangers and its raw, unfiltered beauty?

The question circles my mind as I go through the motions of the conference call, nodding in the right places and saying the expected things. When the call finally ends, I remain seated, my decision crystallizing with sudden, perfect clarity.

I stand up, gather a few personal items from my desk, and walk directly to my boss's office.

"Tessa," he says, looking up in surprise. "I was just about to email you about the Johnson deliverables—"

"I quit," I interrupt.

His mouth opens and closes several times. "Is this some kind of post-traumatic reaction? Because HR has resources. There’s the EAP…"

"It's clarity," I correct him, feeling lighter with each word. "Thank you for everything, but I'm going."

I leave before he can respond before anyone can try to talk me out of it. In my apartment, I grab only what matters—practical clothes, hiking boots, the journal I've kept for years, and a few cherished photos. Everything else is just, well, stuff.

Within an hour, I'm on the highway, heading north in a taxi towards the airport.

"Airport, huh? Where are you headed, dear?" he asks as I slide into the passenger seat.

I smile, feeling more certain than I've ever been. "Darkmore Mountain. I'm going home."

seven

Corbin

I'vespentyearsseekingsolitude, learning the language of the mountain, and finding peace in the absence of human voices. Yet, in the three days since Tessa left, silence has become my enemy.

The cabin feels wrong without her laughter. I find myself turning to share observations with someone who isn't there. Small discoveries feel hollow when kept to myself.

I've tried reverting to my old routines: checking traplines, gathering herbs, and splitting wood. But purpose has drained from these activities, leaving only mechanical motion. I sleep poorly, reaching across my bed for warmth that isn't there.

This morning, I stand at my window watching mist curl through the valley and finally admit the truth I've been avoiding: I miss her with an intensity that borders on physical pain.

She might not come back. She's probably reacclimatized to civilization by now—hot showers, restaurants, people who speak in complete sentences. The memory of our connection likely fading with each passing day.

But what if she hasn't forgotten? What if she's waiting for something I'm too stubborn or scared to offer?

The decision crystallizes with unexpected clarity. I need to find her.

I bathe thoroughly to look less wild and put on the cleanest clothes I own. Looking in the small mirror above my basin, I barely recognize myself. Is this man presentable enough for someone like her?

The hike to town takes nearly two hours. With each step closer to civilization, my resolve wavers. What exactly am I planning to do? The absurdity of my mission begins to dawn on me, but I keep walking.

Darkmore feels overwhelming after so long away. Too many colors. Too many sounds. Too many people moving with the artificial urgency of modern life. How many months has it been since I hiked down here for supplies? Even this small town is too much for me.

I pause outside Old Jimmy's General Store, gathering courage. This is the most logical place to start—Old Jimmy knows everyone and everything that happens in this valley. That happens when you have nearly one hundred years of life experience.

Taking a deep breath, I push open the door, the bell jingling overhead. I'm so focused on preparing what to say that I don't notice the customer turning from the counter with arms full of supplies. We collide, sending her purchases scattering across the floor.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't—" I begin automatically, crouching to help.

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