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“No one ends up here by accident.”I let out a breath.“She didn’t seem surprised to see me.”

“She walked in on her own,” he provides me more information than he probably should, the words calm, certain.“No one comes into Gild who doesn’t already understand what they’re stepping into.”

“So, she chose this.”That conclusion lands differently than I expect it to.It doesn’t align with what I remember.

“Yes.”His response is simple, but one hundred percent certain.The silence that follows carries more weight than anything else that’s been said.When he does speak, it’s with a warning I know I should heed.“She’s not someone you shape to fit into what you want, Hayden.”

My attention shifts back to him.“I don’t shape anyone.”

A pause.Measured.“Don’t you?”

I don’t answer.Because that isn’t the point.The point is whether or not she still fits anywhere in the space I thought I understood.And for the first time since I saw her there’s no clean answer waiting for me.

Chapter Five

Hayden

It’s Been Awhile

Staind

Sunday is quiet.I drive out of the city with no destination in mind.I head west, and ultimately end up at Starved Rock Park, about two hours away.I haven’t been here since I was a kid.I tend not to think about that time in my life very often as the memories cause more pain than not, but this place actually holds one of the very few good ones.

I inhale deeply when I step out of my car.The fall air smells so different here away from the city.The leaves are bright yellows and oranges, decorating the forest in a way only God’s brush can.I’m in shorts and a t-shirt, the temperature still warm during the daytime, so I’m comfortable as I make my way to the trails that lead to the different canyons.

I head to the trail that will take me to French Canyon.Although I’m by myself, I’m hardly alone.The trail is littered with other hikers traveling solo like me, but also in pairs and families, enjoying the golden days of fall while they last.

This particular canyon isn’t a far hike and after more stairs than I care to have climbed, and crossing over a small stream, I find myself in the narrow valley between two steep walls of rock, a thin waterfall streaming between them.I close my eyes as I recall the sweet sound of her gasp of delight and laughter when she saw the waterfall for the first time.The squeal she made as she wiggled her fingers in the cold water.

She was only six.I didn’t know then that she wouldn’t turn seven.That it would be one of the last days I spent with her.One of the last times I got to witness unbridled joy.And as much as I treasure the memory, it also hurts.I stay another thirty minutes, running my hand along the rock face of the wall, wiggling my fingers in the water, absorbing the energy this place holds before I head back to my car.

The week settles back into rhythm.Not perfectly, but close enough that I don’t question it.The studio feels different.The vibe feels cleaner.Mikey’s playing tighter, the edges that were slipping the last few weeks have been pulled back into something controlled.

He told Quinn what he wanted and it appears he got it.She grounds him, keeps him anchored in a way he needed to soften his noise.It works.For him.For me, the noise hasn’t gone anywhere.I tried to put it in a box, pretend I could compartmentalize it, but all I’ve done is redirect it.I don’t go back to Gild.Not yet anyway.There’s no need.I already have what I need to start.

It begins without intention.At least, that’s what I tell myself.The first time, I’m driving past and pretend it’s a coincidence.A wrong turn.Traffic that shifts the route and puts me on her street instead of the one I usually take.I don’t slow down though.I don’t stop.I just take note.

The second time, I know exactly where I’m going.What I’m doing.Her building blends into the rest of the block in a way that feels deliberate.Older brick with character and charm.The kind of place that doesn’t need to announce itself to have value.Secure entry with keypad access and minimal exposure from the street.

She leaves at the same time every morning.On Tuesday, she leaves her apartment just before six p.m., a yoga mat tucked under her arm.Her long red hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun.Her leggings hug every inch of her long limbs as she strides the three blocks to the studio.

I don’t get out of the car.I don’t follow.I don’t interfere.I observe.Gather information.

Wednesday, she comes home later.Still in her work clothes, a bottle of wine in one hand, her bag in the other.Her heels don’t slow her down, even on the grooved pavement.She moves with a confidence I don’t recognize.

Thursday.I wait for hours.She doesn’t come home until after ten.Different clothes.Different pace.The kind of quiet shift that doesn’t need explanation.The Gild.I don’t need confirmation.I recognize it because it’s like looking in a mirror.

I don’t go back the entire weekend.By Monday, I can’t stay away any longer.The decision comes without resistance.Not impulsive.Not careless.Just inevitable as I walk through the entrance to the Art Institute of Chicago.

I don’t go there looking for her.At least, that’s not how I frame it in my mind.I go because I know it’s where she is, and I want to be in a space that’s hers.It’s a space that is different from anything I spend time in.

It’s quiet in a way that instead of feeling controlled, it feels respected.Light filtering in through tall windows softening the edges of everything it touches.People move slower here, their voices lower, like the art itself demands it.

I don’t rush as I explore.There’s no reason to.When I reach the second floor, it feels familiar before I fully register why.Then color, texture, strokes of frozen movement that feels alive.I’m in the Impressionism gallery.Of course I gravitated here.My gaze settles on a painting I’ve seen before, though not like this.And not here.Not without her beside me.

“You see how it moves?”Her voice, years ago, quiet but certain.Not asking, but showing me with a graceful sweep of her fingers.I’d been standing too close.Not to the painting.To her.

“It doesn’t,” I’d said, because at the time, I needed things to be defined and to have structure.She’d smiled, just slightly, like she expected that answer.“Keep looking.”