My fingertips glided across the dusty archive boxes, leaving a clean streak behind. Probably the fifth time this week I’d wondered why the town council refused to give the historical archives a halfway-decent air conditioner.
“Found anything yet, Sophia?”
Mr. Robert peeked down from the ladder, his reading glasses hanging dangerously close to the tip of his nose.
“Not yet.” I slid out a leather-bound photo album as gently as I could. “Just some regular family pictures.”
But I knew I was lying.
Ever since I started sorting through Clayton’s century-old records two weeks ago, I’d had this strange sense that something—or someone—was nudging me forward. Maybe it was the instinct of a history major, maybe just boredom. This town was so dull that the tiniest oddity felt like a spark in dry grass.
When I turned the next page, my breath snagged in my throat.
It was a black-and-white photograph: three men in old-fashioned suits standing at the edge of a forest.
And the young man in the middle—his eyes seemed to slice straight through time and land squarely on me. High cheekbones, loose dark curls falling over his forehead, and that almost-smile on his lips…
I knew that face.
No. Impossible.
The date written below was 1902.
But it was him.
Liam Black—the wildlife photographer who’d moved into town just last month.
——
“So you’re the girl who spends her days digging through musty boxes.”
His voice was even deeper than I remembered, rough around the edges in a way that scraped pleasantly down my spine. When he walked toward me at the Spirit of the Wild photo exhibition, I could practically feel every woman in the room laser-focused on us.
“And you’re the photographer who disappears into the woods for weeks at a time.” I tried to sound calm. Tried.
Liam’s lips curved just slightly, his gray-green eyes dark beneath the dim gallery lights. “Mysterious? I just prefer places where people aren’t.”
He towered over me, wearing nothing but a black T-shirt and jeans, yet carrying that quiet, magnetic wilderness with him. When he took the business card from my hand, our fingers brushed—just a second—and something warm shot through my arm like electricity.
“So,” he said, glancing at the card, “Sophia Green, librarian and historian. How much do you know about the history of Clayton?”
“Enough to write a book.” I inhaled. “Actually, I’m working on one. Which is why I’d like to interview you. You understand these forests better than anyone.”
A shadow crossed his eyes as he studied my face. “The forest doesn’t like being talked about,” he murmured. “It prefers mystery.”
“Just like you?”
The words slipped out before I could stop them. For a moment I froze—but then he laughed. A real, unguarded laugh that softened his whole expression, making his eyes curve into warm crescents.
“Tomorrow afternoon,” he said, “I’ll show you a place I go to often. You can see the whole valley from there. And… the light is beautiful at sunset.”
“Is this a date, Mr. Black?”
“That depends on you, Miss Green.”
I changed my outfit ten times. Ended up in a simple white linen shirt and jeans. Even put on mascara. God help me.
Liam picked me up in an old pickup truck that smelled like pine and gasoline. We drove deeper into the forest, the road narrowing, the canopy thickening until the sun disappeared completely.
“You bring girls here often?” I asked, choking on the silence.
“Never.”
No hesitation.
We stopped at a cliff overlook, and the view hit me like a punch. The entire valley was swallowed in golden sunset, the river gleaming like a silver ribbon twisting through the world.
“Wow,” I whispered.
“I know.” Liam pulled out his camera, every movement deliberate and smooth. “Sometimes the most beautiful things hide in the hardest places to reach.”
He began taking photos. I began stealing glances. The way he moved was… different. Quiet. Fluid. Almost predatory, as if he was always listening to something I couldn’t hear. His shirt stretched across his back when he crouched, outlining lean muscle.
“What are you looking at?” he asked suddenly, without turning.
“Nothing.” My cheeks flared with heat.
He lowered the camera and walked toward me. “You’re a terrible liar.”
He was close—too close. Close enough for me to smell him. Pine needles, earth, and something deeper, raw, wild.
“I found something,” I blurted. “In the archives. A photo from 1902.”
His body went still, like a wire pulled taut. “Oh?”
“There’s a man in it… who looks exactly like you.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Charged.
His eyes sharpened, and for the first time I noticed it—those faint gold flecks around his pupils.
“A coincidence,” he said finally. Calm voice. Not a calm man. The air between us tightened, dense enough to touch.
“Liam,” I whispered, reaching out—God, why did I do that?—to touch his arm. “If there’s something you want to tell me…”
A long wolf howl broke across the mountains, so close the ground seemed to hum.
Liam spun toward the sound, muscles coiled beneath his shirt. He didn’t look afraid.
He looked alert.
Like it called to him.
“We should go,” he said sharply. “It’s getting dark.”
The ride back was silent. Too silent. When he dropped me at the library, he didn’t even kill the engine.
“Liam,” I said quietly, “did I say something—”
“Tomorrow,” he cut in, voice rough. “Full moon. I always go into the mountains on full-moon nights. I’ll be gone a few days.”
“Oh.”
My chest tightened with a stupid, unexplainable disappointment.
He hesitated, then reached for the chain around his neck. It was a simple silver necklace, the pendant a small wolf’s head. He pressed it into my hand, warm from his skin.
“Take this,” he said. “A… charm. Wear it while I’m gone.”
“Why?”
“Just wear it.” His eyes softened with something like pleading. “Promise me, Sophia.”
Before I could answer, he pulled away, swallowed by the rising dusk.
I stood there in the cooling night, clutching the warm silver wolf in my fist. Somewhere in the mountains, a second howl rolled across the sky—closer, sharper, echoing through my bones.
I slept with that necklace on for three days.
My fingertips glided across the dusty archive boxes, leaving a clean streak behind. Probably the fifth time this week I’d wondered why the town council refused to give the historical archives a halfway-decent air conditioner.
“Found anything yet, Sophia?”
Mr. Robert peeked down from the ladder, his reading glasses hanging dangerously close to the tip of his nose.
“Not yet.” I slid out a leather-bound photo album as gently as I could. “Just some regular family pictures.”
But I knew I was lying.
Ever since I started sorting through Clayton’s century-old records two weeks ago, I’d had this strange sense that something—or someone—was nudging me forward. Maybe it was the instinct of a history major, maybe just boredom. This town was so dull that the tiniest oddity felt like a spark in dry grass.
When I turned the next page, my breath snagged in my throat.
It was a black-and-white photograph: three men in old-fashioned suits standing at the edge of a forest.
And the young man in the middle—his eyes seemed to slice straight through time and land squarely on me. High cheekbones, loose dark curls falling over his forehead, and that almost-smile on his lips…
I knew that face.
No. Impossible.
The date written below was 1902.
But it was him.
Liam Black—the wildlife photographer who’d moved into town just last month.
——
“So you’re the girl who spends her days digging through musty boxes.”
His voice was even deeper than I remembered, rough around the edges in a way that scraped pleasantly down my spine. When he walked toward me at the Spirit of the Wild photo exhibition, I could practically feel every woman in the room laser-focused on us.
“And you’re the photographer who disappears into the woods for weeks at a time.” I tried to sound calm. Tried.
Liam’s lips curved just slightly, his gray-green eyes dark beneath the dim gallery lights. “Mysterious? I just prefer places where people aren’t.”
He towered over me, wearing nothing but a black T-shirt and jeans, yet carrying that quiet, magnetic wilderness with him. When he took the business card from my hand, our fingers brushed—just a second—and something warm shot through my arm like electricity.
“So,” he said, glancing at the card, “Sophia Green, librarian and historian. How much do you know about the history of Clayton?”
“Enough to write a book.” I inhaled. “Actually, I’m working on one. Which is why I’d like to interview you. You understand these forests better than anyone.”
A shadow crossed his eyes as he studied my face. “The forest doesn’t like being talked about,” he murmured. “It prefers mystery.”
“Just like you?”