I flicked the light switch by the door, half convinced it wouldn’t work. A warm glow filled the small living room.
Someone had been taking care of this place.
The wood floors were
polished, the furniture wasn’t falling apart, and a neat stack of firewood leaned against the stone fireplace. I shut the door and leaned against it, wondering if Dad had arranged for someone to keep an eye on the cabin.
My bag sat heavy at my feet, but what caught my attention was a framed photograph on the mantle. I stepped closer. It was Dad, young, barely 20, standing in front of this same cabin with an older woman I didn’t recognize. On the back, written in his sharp handwriting: With Grandma Rose, 1962, the place where everything began.
Grandma Rose.
Dad had never mentioned a Rose. He always said his parents died young. No family left.
