My husband and I once had a ranch. Then we moved to the city, and I never went back.
Not once in thirty years.
After our son Benjamin drowned in the lake, I couldn’t bear the land anymore. I couldn’t bear the air. I couldn’t bear the memories.
So we left. Denver. Distance. Silence.
My husband, James, told me he went back three times a year.
Fishing trips. Medical conferences. Old friends.
I believed him because I needed to.
Then he died six months ago.
And my children said the same thing, over and over:
“Sell it. It’s worth nothing.”
They said a mining company offered a fortune. They said Dad would want it. They said it was just land.
I agreed—almost.
But before I signed anything, I needed to see it one last time.
Just pictures for the listing. Just closure.
Then I opened the rusty gate.
And what I found living there was not what I expected.
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