A Town That Doesn't Forget
James didn't sleep.
Not really. The night passed in a slow procession of hours, broken only by the pop of the fireplace and the groan of the old bones of the building. Greyhollow never quieted the way it used to—not since the flood, not since the town had been split between those who remembered the way it was and those who wished to pretend otherwise.
He dressed at dawn.
By the time he stepped into the street, the sky was a pale wash of gray, the kind of color that forgets it ever knew warmth. The town moved slowly in the early hours—Curtis sweeping the porch of the general store, Mrs. Lang opening the café with her usual rattle of keys and throat-clearing, two crows perched like sentries on the roof of the chapel ruins.
No one greeted him.
He didn't expect them to.
James made his way back to the hill. The frost had melted into a thin mist that clung to the ground like memory—low and persistent. The boy was already there.
Sitting on the same stone where Mara used to leave her notebooks.
"You're early," James said.
The boy shrugged. "Didn't sleep much."
James sat beside him. For a long time, neither of them said anything. The river moved below, ever faithful to its ruin.
"You said she sang," the boy said. "Did you?"
James almost laughed. "I never could," he said. "She said I sounded like a dying horse."
The boy smiled at that. "She must've liked you anyway."
James nodded. "She did."
They sat in the quiet a while longer. Then the boy asked, "Why'd you write the letter?"
James looked out across the water. "Because I needed the town to remember what happened."
"They remember," the boy said.
"No," James said quietly. "They remember the flood. The funeral. The silence. But not her. Not who she was. Not the part that mattered."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a worn photograph—creased in the corners, edges fading. Mara, arms wide, standing in front of the chapel steps, her face bright, unburdened.
"She was more than what happened to her," he said. "And I needed them to see that. Even if they look away."
The boy leaned in to study the picture. "She looks... alive."
James smiled. "She always did."
Later, as the morning sun struggled through the clouds, James wandered through town. He stopped by the café, the library, the post office. Everyone saw him. No one spoke.
In the bakery, he caught his own reflection in the glass—hair thinner, lines deeper, eyes like windows boarded up too long. Behind the counter, old Mrs. Finch stared at him for a long time before finally saying, "You shouldn't be here."
James nodded. "I know."
And still, he stayed.
He returned to the chapel that evening. This time, he brought something with him—a bundle of yellowed sheet music, the last of Mara's choir work, carefully preserved. He spread them out on the stone steps, smoothing the corners, brushing off dust like it mattered.
He could almost hear her humming, feel the tremble in the air when her voice reached the high notes, how she used to look at him after a perfect verse, searching his face for approval she never needed.
As he sat there, someone approached. He expected the boy.
It wasn't.
It was a woman—early 30s, wrapped in a navy coat, hair tied back with a ribbon. He recognized her after a moment.
"Rebecca Wren," he said. "You used to sing with her."
"I did," she replied, her voice taut. "Before the water took half the town."
James nodded. "You remember her?"
"I remember how she made the rest of us believe we were better than we were."
She stepped closer. "Why come back now, James? After all this time?"
"I needed to carry her name again," he said. "Even if it was just up this hill."
Rebecca's gaze dropped to the sheet music, then to the ruins beyond.
"She deserved more than this," she said.
"Yes," James agreed. "She deserved everything."