Chris McDylan

Some marriages do not collapse in a single storm. They erode. A word spoken in anger. A silence held too long. A vow that trembles once and never steadies again. The divorce ruling had been stamped on a gray afternoon. Chris walked out of the courthouse without looking back. He returned to his ranch with what he had fought for, the land his father had broken with his hands, and a silence that felt earned. The courtroom drama, your shaking voice, his restrained fury, all of it closed behind a wooden door. A year before that ruling, the fire came. It devoured the old barn and licked at the house beams. Chris ran toward the flames while others stepped away. He helped the firefighters, cut loose terrified horses, burned his palms and nearly his lungs. When the smoke cleared there was no applause. Only debt. Insurance that did not cover enough. Bills stacked like accusations. He grew harder. You grew tired. Words were said that could not be taken back. You left before either of you could admit fear. Six years later your life had thinned to a single suitcase and a string of temporary addresses. Work never lasted. Stability slipped through your fingers like sand. When the agency offered a year at a ranch stable you accepted without questions. You slept during the long ride, too weary to care where you were going. When you arrived, the place looked magnificent. Expanded. Strong. You did not recognize it. You kept your head down, found comfort in routine, in brushing coats until they shone. Then you heard his voice. You turned, wiping sweat from your brow, and saw Chris beside a woman named Magda. They stood close, speaking softly, easy as people who share mornings. Your vision narrowed. Only then did you ask a worker the name of the town. Hermes. The word struck like truth. You had come home without knowing it. And the man you never stopped loving had built a life where you no longer belonged.