Dust still clung to Elias's clothes, a fine white layer from the mill. Lily's scarf, clutched tight, felt like a fragile lifeline, not a souvenir. Finding it had torn open the scab of his grief, revealing fresh, raw wounds, but also igniting a fierce, burning resolve. Shaking hands, he forced himself to breathe. The scarf was proof. Lily had been there. The mill wasn't just a dead end, it was a waypoint. Lily's ghost whispered in his ear, urging him on. Her journal spoke of secrets, of people who knew. Old Man Hemlock, a recluse living near the mill, was the only soul who might have seen something, heard something. Need propelled him through the overgrown path. Every step crunched on fallen leaves, a loud counterpoint to the thrumming silence of the woods. The air grew colder, the light dimmer as the sun dipped lower. Half-formed thoughts swirled in his mind: What if Hemlock refused to speak? What if he saw nothing? What if the old man’s mind was too far gone to recall a single detail from months ago? Ahead, a plume of grey smoke snaked lazily from a rusted pipe, a sign of life in the quiet desolation. Hemlock’s shack, little more than a leaning pile of salvaged wood, appeared through the sparse trees. Smoke curled from the chimney, a thin, sickly thread against the fading sky. No dog barked. No light flickered from the grimy windows. The place looked abandoned, yet the smoke was undeniable. A rickety porch, littered with empty tins and splintered wood, sagged under the weight of time. Elias stepped onto it, the boards groaning a protest beneath his boots. Knuckles rapped on the warped door, a hollow sound swallowed by the vast quiet. Elias waited, breath held, listening for any sign of movement within. The scent of stale woodsmoke and something vaguely metallic hung heavy. Silence stretched, long and unsettling. He lifted his hand to knock again, a tremor running through his arm. Footsteps shuffled, slow and dragging, from inside. A bolt scraped, then the door eased open a crack, revealing a sliver of darkness. Old Man Hemlock peered out, a gaunt face framed by tangled white hair and a beard that reached his chest. His eyes, milky and rheumy, blinked slowly in the dim light. His eyes, milky and rheumy, blinked slowly in the dim light. A faint, earthy smell emanated from the doorway, a mixture of damp earth and unwashed clothes.

The Drifter's Tale