The cart’s splintered wheels jolted over gnarled cedar roots, carving shallow scars into the soft, loamy soil of the Idaho forest. Each lurch sent a dull, throbbing pain through David’s frail body, a torment that seemed to rise not from his paralyzed limbs but from a deeper wound—a grief that gnawed at his heart like a relentless tide. He lay sprawled on a bed of damp, musty hay, its earthy scent mingling with the sharp tang of cedar sap and the faint, musky odor of unseen creatures lurking beyond the trees. Above, the sky was a patchwork of iron-gray clouds, their edges tattered, drifting through the towering cedars whose branches swayed in a restless breeze. The air was heavy, saturated with the rich aroma of wet bark, moss, and an elusive, primal note that stirred unease in David’s chest, a whisper of the wild’s indifference.
Linda trudged ahead, her broad shoulders hunched under the weight of the cart’s handles. Her hands, toughened by years of labor—kneading dough, scrubbing floors, tending a garden—gripped the wood with a fierce, unyielding strength. She didn’t glance back, didn’t speak, and her silence was a blade, colder and sharper than any rebuke. David’s mind, though trapped in a failing body, was sharp, and it wandered to a time when Linda was different. Decades ago, in these same woods near Clearwater, her laughter had danced through the air, bright and free, as they roamed hand in hand, picking wild chokecherries under a blazing summer sun. Her hair, then a cascade of auburn waves, had caught the light, and her eyes, warm as honey, had sparkled with love. They’d been young, their future a canvas of promise—David, a carpenter whose hands could shape cedar into homes, and Linda, his partner in dreams, her voice soft as she spoke of the life they’d build.
He recalled the pride in her gaze when he’d led her through the forest to their cabin, its logs hewn by his own hands, each beam a testament to his skill. The cabin had stood sturdy against Idaho’s harsh winters, its hearth glowing with the warmth of their shared life. They’d sat on its porch, watching elk graze at dusk, planning a future filled with children and laughter. But those dreams had faded. The children never came, and the years wore at Linda’s spirit, her warmth replaced by a quiet bitterness that grew like a weed. David’s stroke, three years prior, had been the final blow, cleaving their lives into before and after.
Before was the scent of fresh sawdust in his workshop, the rhythmic thud of his hammer shaping beams, the eager bark of their old hound, Scout, greeting the dawn. It was the murmur of townsfolk at Clearwater’s town hall, where David’s steady voice had guided discussions on crops, fences, and community. After was a prison of immobility, the sour stench of unwashed linens, the shame of bedsores, and Linda’s eyes—once a haven—now a storm of resentment. Her care for him had become mechanical, her touch devoid of tenderness, each act laced with unspoken rage. He tried to speak, to ask where she was taking him, but his throat, like his limbs, was useless, producing only a strangled wheeze. Linda flinched, her steps faltering, and the cart stopped beneath the sprawling canopy of an ancient cedar, its gnarled branches clawing at the sky like the fingers of some forgotten deity.
Linda circled the cart, her boots crunching on a carpet of fallen needles, her breath visible in the crisp air. She stopped, her gaze locking onto David’s face. Her eyes, framed by lines etched by years of disappointment, held no trace of the woman he’d loved. They were a wasteland, scorched by exhaustion and bitterness, devoid of pity or doubt. The wind tugged at her faded scarf, and for a moment, the forest seemed to pause, its creatures holding their breath. Without a word, she gripped the cart’s edge, her knuckles whitening, and with a grunt of effort, tipped it over. David’s body tumbled to the ground, his shoulder striking a jutting root with a sickening thud. Pain, sharp and blinding, surged through him, but his voice remained trapped, his cry silent.
He lay crumpled, the cold earth seeping into his bones, his eyes fixed on Linda. She dusted her hands, adjusted her scarf with deliberate care, and spoke, her voice as sharp as a shard of ice: “This is where you die, you useless old fool. I’m done cleaning up after you.” The words hung in the air, each one a nail driven into the coffin of their past. David’s heart twisted, not from the betrayal—he’d sensed her hatred growing—but from the finality of her abandonment. She was leaving him to the wolves, to the cold, to a death she’d chosen for him.
Linda turned, her figure fading into the emerald gloom of the forest, the creak of the cart’s wheels growing distant. The sound was swallowed by the chirp of a distant thrush, then a crushing silence, broken only by the frantic pulse of blood in David’s ears and the silent scream of his soul. He stared into the void where she’d gone, his mind reeling with questions that had no answers: Why? For what? The forest, vast and indifferent, offered no solace, its shadows ready to claim him in their eternal embrace.
As night descended, the temperature plummeted, the air biting at his exposed skin. The forest came alive with nocturnal sounds—the hoot of an owl, the rustle of leaves stirred by unseen paws, the distant howl of a coyote. David’s body shivered uncontrollably, each tremor a reminder of his vulnerability. Yet, beneath the cedar’s protective canopy, he felt an odd sense of shelter, as if the tree itself stood guard. His mind drifted, tangled in memories of better days—carving a rocking chair for Linda, her smile as she tested its smooth glide; teaching young Thomas to whittle; the warmth of the town’s annual Harvest Fair, where he’d once judged the best apple pie. These fragments were all he had left, fragile threads holding him to life.