Page 1 of Run to Me
OLIVIA
The old gate groans in a way that stirs memory, bittersweet and familiar, as I step onto the property. Signs, marked with fading letters and forgotten dreams, bend beneath the wide, unforgiving sky. The wind whispers through the brittle grass like it knows what I’ve come for.
Everything here seems to ache and sag, caught between hanging on and giving up. The land bears old scars from the cattle runs and corn harvests of my childhood, times when I thought things never changed and dreams always came true. I’m not just here to remember, though. I’m here to reclaim.
Each step is a little more sure than the last, gravel grinding beneath me. I glance at the barns ahead, once part of a thriving ranch, now teetering on the edge of history. They’ve seen better days and so have I. My stride picks up, confidence built on sheer will.
The wood of the barn door is rough under my fingers, paint curling away like brittle flower petals. This place holds a piece of me, a part I once left behind. I wonder if I can find it again, if it still belongs. This is my home, in all the ways that matter, and I’ll breathe life back into it. I brush the hair from my eyes. Light floods the space and I step inside. It’s larger than I remember,and emptier. The sun spills through gaps in the walls, and I see possibilities unfold like stories. A history that is both beautiful and broken, a future waiting to be written.
I smooth the plans across a wooden table. They don’t belong here, not yet. But soon. One day. My chest feels tight with ambition and longing, with the dreams that brought me back to this place. I run a finger along the lines I’ve drawn, my vision taking shape before me. I close my eyes, trying to calm the racing hope in my heart.
I’ll win back this land.
The familiar shape of my father appears from behind the barn. He wipes his hand and grins, making me feel sixteen again, like no dream of mine is impossible. His eyes crinkle as he looks at the blueprints I’ve spread across the table. We move through the space, side-by-side. My father’s gestures are broad and generous, arms sweeping toward the beams and floors. I smile, using a pencil to trace where I see our future. My voice lifts with excitement and urgency. “Wedding receptions here, nestled under the twinkle of string lights.” He nods, adjusting his hat and leaving me with the same old question, just as he always does.
“Then we fix what’s broken, step by step?”
I meet his eyes, finding answers I didn’t know I needed. “Yes. Step by step.”
He watches me the way he always does, seeing the girl I was and the woman I’ve become. There’s something profoundly reassuring about it, and it buoys me in a way I can’t quite put into words. He leans over the plans, his worn hands brushing lightly across the paper, like he’s handling something precious.
“You’ve got quite the vision, Liv.”
“It’s a bit out there, I know.”
He shakes his head, gentle and sure. “You always did think big.”
We walk together and Dad points toward the tall, wooden beams, relics of a time when this barn was the heart of everything.
“Solid work,” he remarks, his tone carrying the weight of all the years he’s spent here.
“And solid floors,” I add, matching his pace and pointing to the cracked concrete beneath our feet. My voice takes on a familiar, businesslike tone. “We’ll need to level them out.”
His laughter is like music. “One step at a time, remember?”
The space wraps around us as we move, filling with plans and possibilities.
“So,” he says, drawing out the word. “What do you see when you look at all this?”
His question settles over me, a challenge and an invitation. I let the silence stretch, considering savoring it like the moment before a first dance. “I see weddings here, Dad. Lots of them.” I look around, letting my imagination fill the empty spaces. “Couples celebrating, right under the glow of twinkle lights.”
He nods. “And you think we can do all that in this old barn?”
“Not just can. We will.”
There’s a pause. I sense the weight of my words hanging in the air between us, and I’m almost surprised at the conviction in my words. But more than that, I’m exhilarated by it.
“We’ll start with the roofs,” I say, penciling in notes on the margins. “Keep the charm, of course.”
Dad nods again.
His humor is like a burst of sunlight through the clouds, and I find myself laughing along with him, feeling lighter than I have in months. Maybe years.
“We’ll work every day until it’s ready,” I say, almost breathless from the thrill of it all.
“And every night too, if we have to,” Dad replies, his commitment as steady as the land we stand on.
The barn feels less like a relic and more like a canvas. The raw potential is exhilarating, and it’s mirrored in his eyes, bright and full of what I know is hope. My chest feels tight with the promise of everything we’re about to create.
