Chapter 60

• The old farmhouse, nestled deep within the Vermont hills, hummed with a quiet energy. It wasn't the crackling of the fire in the hearth, though that contributed to the cozy ambiance. Nor was it the wind whispering secrets through the eaves, though the sound was a constant companion. No, the energy stemmed from Cleo and Rowan, from the palpable sense of anticipation that hung heavy in the air, thick and sweet as the scent of woodsmoke and pine. They weren’t just preparing for a journey; they were forging their future, brick by fragile brick, in a crucible of uncertainty and hope.
• Cleo, her hands stained with the earthy hues of the late autumn harvest, carefully packed a small bag. She moved with a newfound purpose, a quiet determination that belied the tremor still lingering in her hands, a ghost of the fear that still occasionally surfaced. Each item she placed inside – a worn photograph of her younger self, a tattered book of poetry, a small, chipped teacup – was a tangible piece of her past, a testament to the life she was leaving behind. But it was also a reminder of the strength she had discovered, a strength born of resilience and the unwavering love that bloomed amid the wreckage of her past. The bag, a symbol of her escape, felt lighter than it should have, a reflection of the lightness in her heart.
• Rowan, meanwhile, was meticulously checking their supplies. He moved with the quiet efficiency of a seasoned soldier, his gaze sharp and alert, but his movements surprisingly gentle. He examined the contents of their backpacks, making sure the extra layers of wool, the emergency rations, and the first-aid kit were all in place. He wasn't merely preparing for a physical journey; he was preparing for a battle – a battle against the forces that had sought to destroy Cleo's life, and a battle against the lingering shadows of his own past. His preparations, however, were not born of fear, but of a steely resolve, a quiet determination to protect her, to stand by her side no matter the cost.