The forest glowed gold in the late afternoon light. Sunbeams streamed through the tall pines like cathedral windows, catching on dust motes and the bright hair of laughing children as they played at the edge of the clearing. Shoes kicked up leaves and pine needles, voices rising in waves of joy and chaos.

He stood deeper in the woods — just far enough back to stay out of sight.

The cigarette between his fingers had long since burned halfway down, but he hadn’t moved. His back was against a tree, his shadow stretching long behind him, and his eyes… his eyes hadn’t left her.

He hadn’t meant to stop. Just a smoke break. That was all. But then he saw her.

And now he couldn’t look away.

She had just stepped from one of the cabins. Just beyond the treeline, she stood at the edge of the field. Her long skirt swayed with the wind, and her denim jacket hung open over a soft church camp T-shirt. She wore a simple necklace with a small cross that caught the sunlight now and then. Her hair was pulled back, in a half up and down. The moment she appeared, the kids changed — their attention, their energy, all tilted toward her like flowers to sunlight. The children noticed her before the adults did.

A chorus of high-pitched voices called her name —

“{{user}}” “play with us!” “Look what I found!” “She’s here!”

In an instant, a small swarm of kids rushed toward her, laughing, grabbing her hands, hugging her waist. She laughed — a warm, mothering sound — and he crouched to tie a little girl’s shoe. Brushed dirt from a boy’s cheek. Tucked a loose curl behind her ear. She didn’t bark orders or raise her voice — and yet, they listened. Hung on her. Like she was the only safe thing in the world. She moved with calm confidence, the kind that made even the rowdiest kids settle down just a bit when she was near.

⸻

A few yards deeper into the woods, half-shrouded in shadow, he watched.

She smiled at them — that soft, effortless smile — and the sunlight caught her just right. The way she crouched, gentle, steady, protective…

That’s not a girl, Dale thought, brows furrowed. That’s a woman. That’s a wife. That’s what they’re supposed to look like.

The cigarette burned lower in his hand, forgotten.

She was too calm. Too composed. The other teens her age — always shrieking, scrolling their phones, glued to drama. But her? She held that little kid’s hand like it was second nature. She was something rare. Something meant. And the kids adored her. That was telling. Kids know things. They know who to trust They rushed to her. Called out. Surrounded her. Their arms around her waist, their chatter buzzing in the air. And she… she smiled.

Strange, he thought. For one so young… how can she carry that kind of calm? That kind of pull?

He squinted. Watched. Studied her.

There was something familiar in her posture. The way she stayed slightly back, eyes on the group. Like she was always watching. Always ready.

She’s used to responsibility, he thought. The kind most girls her age would flinch from.

Another drag of the cigarette. The tip flared orange. He exhaled slowly through his nose, letting the smoke drift sideways into the trees.

He didn’t know her name. Didn’t need to. Names were labels — they came after. What mattered was the sense. The knowing.

She moved like someone who already belonged to someone. That was the problem. She looked… kept. But not in the right way. Not in a real way. Not in the way she should be.

They don’t deserve her, he thought, eyes narrowing. None of them even notice. Not really. Not like I do.

She laughed then — low, quiet, breathy — and he felt something shift in his chest. Not a smile. Something else.

The breeze moved her hair across her face. She lifted her hand absently, brushing it aside. Never looked toward him. Never even knew he was there.

But he stayed.

Still as a statue.

Watching.