Chapter 5

Willow Creek woke early for Spring Cleanup Day—one of the few unofficial holidays that could coax the whole town into the same place at the same time. The sun spilled bright across Falcon Ridge, melting last night’s thin crust of frost, and the air had that crisp, new-leaf scent that only happened for a short stretch each year. At the town park, people trickled in with rakes strapped to their pickup beds and paper cups of coffee steaming in their hands.

Bright banners hung between light poles—probably last year’s, judging by the frayed edges. Kids dashed through the grass still damp with meltwater, boots splashing as they shrieked and chased each other. A cluster of older residents had staked their claim to a picnic table, insulated mugs and gossip ready for deployment. Someone handed out muffins. Someone else argued cheerfully about the best method for pruning aspens.

It was the kind of gathering that ran on its own rhythm, everyone knowing their part without needing to be told.

Ryan hovered at the edge of it all.

He stood near a low stone wall marking the boundary of the park, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders slightly hunched as if bracing for wind that never came. People brushed past him on their way to greet someone they knew—clapping shoulders, laughing loudly, calling out names across the green.

A few glanced his way, offering polite nods. A woman with a shepherd mix by her side smiled with neighborly warmth. A man in a baseball cap tipped the brim respectfully.

Ryan nodded back, stiff, formal, as though he wasn’t entirely sure how to return friendliness in a way that looked natural.

This highly social setting brought back his feelings of not fitting in—with a vengeance.

Children darted close, then away again, never noticing him—little ghost trails of motion he couldn’t quite relax around. A pickup rolled in, the back stacked with garden tools and bags of mulch. Someone immediately called out, “Pete, you brought the good shovels!” and laughter broke out.

All of it felt impossibly seamless.

Ryan shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. He had shown up because Caleb told him it was a good way to meet people ... which now felt like dubious advice at best. Caleb himself hadn’t arrived yet. Probably running late. Or maybe he’d said ten and meant ten-thirty.

Ryan checked his phone—only nine-fifty.

He inhaled, the scent of turned soil and fresh sap filling his chest. He tried not to fidget.

Everyone else moved with ease, blending into the small-town choreography he hadn’t learned. He watched neighbors greet each other with the casual intimacy of shared history—inside jokes, decades-old stories, bonds tied between seasons and storms.

A soft breeze rattled the still-bare branches overhead. Somewhere behind him, the church bell chimed the hour.

A group of teenage volunteers jogged past, headed toward the equipment shed. One of them glanced back at him, curious—not unfriendly, not suspicious, just curious in a way that made heat rise behind Ryan’s ears. He turned slightly, pretending to study the event sign posted near the path.

WILLOW CREEK SPRING CLEANUP — ALL HANDS WELCOME.

He wondered if he qualified as “welcome” yet.

A burst of laughter rose from the gazebo where the town committee was discussing tasks for the day. Someone started passing out gloves. Someone else joked about how long it would take to wrangle last year’s leaf piles. Everything was motion, ease, familiarity.

Ryan tried to picture himself stepping forward. Joining a group. Introducing himself. Saying something normal.

His throat tightened.

He wasn’t invisible, but he might as well have been standing behind glass—close enough to see everything clearly, too distant to reach through.

He pulled in a breath, let it out slowly. Then, across the park, he spotted Caleb striding in, waving to three different people at once, grin as wide as the mountain range.

Relief washed through Ryan so quickly it nearly made him unsteady. At least he wasn’t entirely alone.

Still ... he remained where he stood, waiting, watching the town fold and unfurl around him like a story he wasn’t yet written into.

Caleb spotted Ryan before too long—standing stiff as a fence post near the stone wall, looking like he was contemplating escape routes. The carpenter let out a low chuckle and made his way over, weaving through the milling volunteers with easy familiarity.

“There you are,” Caleb called, clapping a hand on Ryan’s shoulder hard enough to jostle him a little. “Thought you might’ve bailed.”

Ryan managed a thin smile. “I considered it.”

“Yeah, I could tell from your face,” Caleb said, grinning. “You look like someone invited you to a potluck and then told you the food was potluck-themed.”

Ryan huffed a laugh despite himself. “It’s just ... a lot of people.”

“That’s the point,” Caleb replied. “It’s the one day of the year Willow Creek pretends to be busy. Give it an hour—half these folks will be at the coffee stand arguing about trail conditions.”

Ryan glanced around again—neighbors greeting each other, kids flinging handfuls of last autumn’s leaves at each other, dogs tangling leashes as they sniffed strangers with zero hesitation. It still felt overwhelming. But with Caleb next to him, he felt less like a stray piece of furniture in the middle of the park.