The Gate Opened Too Easily. The Road Wasn’t Overgrown.
I stood at the entrance with my fingers on a padlock that had haunted my dreams for three decades.
In my head, I expected resistance: weeds, rot, abandonment.
I expected the ranch to look like my grief felt—frozen, broken, untouched.
But the gate swung open like someone had used it yesterday.
The padlock and chain were basically decorative.
I walked the dirt road toward the old house and felt my stomach tighten.
The road wasn’t swallowed by grass.
It was maintained. Recently graded.
Fresh tire tracks cut through the dust.
Then I noticed the fences.
Repaired.
A windmill turning on the hill.
Buildings in the distance that absolutely didn’t exist when we left.
My brain tried to protect me with the simplest explanation:
Someone bought it. Someone moved in. You missed it.
But no sale paperwork existed.
No mention. No warning.
Only James’s quiet returns, like clockwork.
I called out into the open sky.
“Hello? Is someone there?”
No answer.
Just wind through tall grass and the sound of my own breath.
Then I crested the final hill.
And the world I thought I knew… disappeared.
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