Page 102 of At First Dance
The shed.
It’s barely more than a frame and a roof on the far side of Otter Creek Farm, but tucked behind it—buried under dust and canvas tarps—was the start of a stage. My dad built it for one of the county fairs and said it was for the "next Coral Bell Cove talent showcase."
We never finished it. But now? Now I know exactly what I’m building it for.
The door to the old shed sticks, swollen from humidity and years of neglect. I put my shoulder into it, the wood groaning like it remembers me. Dust spills into the light, the smell of old pine and rust curling in the air.
I haven’t been in here since before the county fair stopped using volunteers for staging. But it’s all still here. Stacks of old boards. Crossbeams leaning in a forgotten corner. Buckets of bent nails and sun-bleached canvas shoved behind a half-broken ladder.
And in the back, under a fraying tarp—what I came looking for. The old stage frame. The bones are solid. Weathered, but strong, like they’re waiting for a second chance.
I drop to one knee and tug the tarp free, exposing warped planks and forgotten dreams. My fingers run over the wood, memorizing each knot and splinter like they might tell me what to do next.
I haul the first support beam into the sunlit clearing behind the shed, my boots kicking up dry dirt. The old fairground stage isn’t much—just a raised frame and a few crossbars—but it’ll be something. Ithasto be something.
If not, she’ll have a place to sing when she comes back.
If not… at least I’ll know I tried.
By noon, I’ve cleared the worst of the debris, sweat dripping down my back as I sand the first plank clean. My shoulders burn, but I keep working. Keep moving. Because if I stop, I’ll feel the silence again.
I pull my phone from my pocket and stare at the empty thread for a full minute. Then on instinct, I snap a photo of the half-cleared frame. Just enough sunlight. Just enough shadow.
No caption. I don’t send it.
Instead, I scroll to her name, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
Me:
Hope Nashville’s treating you okay.
Simple. Safe. I send it. No typing bubble. No read receipt. Just silence. I toss the phone onto a toolbox and grab a hammer.
The rhythm of work is the only thing that drowns out her voice in my head. That, and the echo of the song I haven’t heard yet—but already know by heart.
The sun is just starting to tilt westward, casting long shadows over the clearing behind the equipment shed. The old fair stage is still mostly bones—rotting planks, half-buried supports, and rusted nails waiting to bite. But the bones are solid enough to stand on. Solid enough to rebuild.
I tug my cap lower and shift the plank into place, sweat clinging to my back and arms. The ache in my shoulders is welcome. It gives me something to do. Something that isn’t thinking about the silence Ivy left behind.
I grab the hammer, swing, and drive the nail home. The sound cracks across the clearing like thunder.
“Thought I might find you here.”
The voice—low, gravelly with age and too many years shouting over tractors—belongs to my father.
I don’t turn. Not right away. My father, Mason Wright, doesn’t fill silences unless he has to. He’s a man of fences and hay bales, long pauses and looks that say more than most people’s words.
“Didn’t know I was lost,” I say eventually.
He steps up beside me, glancing at the beam in my hands. “You’re not.”
I finally look over. He’s holding two bottles of water, one of them extended my way. His ball cap is sweat-stained at the brim, jeans coated in dust, his button-up rolled at the sleeves. The same uniform he’s worn since I was old enough to walk behind him in the fields.
“Thanks,” I mutter, taking the bottle.
For a few minutes, we stand there. Me drinking. Him studying the stage like it holds answers. Or maybe like he’s trying to remember the last time this thing stood proud.
“You working on somethin’?” he asks eventually.
