Chapter 4

Jennifer lay in the bed she grew up in. The curtains rose again on a slow, cool breeze. They lifted higher than before. The fabric billowed outward in a gentle arc. It swelled like a sail catching wind. The linen was pale cream in the moonlight. It looked almost luminous. The curtains floated for a moment at their peak. Then they drifted back down in a soft, lazy descent. The breeze reached Jennifer’s face. It was cooler than the air in the room. It carried the sharp, clean scent of redwoods. The smell was resinous and green. The aroma was mixed with the faint sweetness of night-blooming jasmine. She breathed it deeply. The air tasted crisp on her tongue. It tasted like pine and damp earth and something older. Something that belonged to the canyon itself.

The temperature dropped against her skin. She felt it on her cheeks first. Then on her bare shoulders. Then along with her arms, where they rested above the blanket. Goosebumps rose in a wave. The coolness was pleasant. It was refreshing after the warmth of the day. A few strands of her hair lifted from the pillow. They moved gently in the breeze. They brushed against her temple. Then they settled back down. The sheets beneath her were soft cotton. They had been washed so many times they felt like silk. They were cool where her body had not warmed them. They were smooth against her legs. She shifted slightly. The fabric moved with her. It made a faint whispering sound.

The moonlight spilled farther into the room as the curtains rose. It moved across the floorboards in a slow sweep. The light was silver-blue and clear. It caught the uneven grain of the wood. It illuminated the faint scuffs left from years of childhood play. A scratch near the closet door where she had dragged a toy chest. A darkened spot where paint had dripped during a school project. The light reached the dresser. It climbed the dark wood surface. It touched the ceramic dish where she kept her earrings. The dish was pale blue with tiny flowers painted around the rim. The moonlight made the flowers glow softly.

Next to the dish sat a framed photograph. Her parents on their wedding day. The glass caught the light. It reflected a brief flash of silver. The moonlight moved to the bookshelf. It traveled up the spines of her childhood books. The titles became visible one by one. Little Women. The Secret Garden. A Wrinkle in Time. The gold lettering on the spines gleamed faintly. The light reached higher. It touched a ceramic figurine on the top shelf. A small white horse with a flowing mane. She had won it at a county fair when she was twelve.

The moonlight stretched toward the foot of her bed. It slid across the wooden footboard. It reached the stuffed rabbit sitting propped against the post. The rabbit’s pink satin ribbon caught the light. The ribbon shimmered for a moment. It looked almost alive. The rabbit’s worn fur seemed softer in the moonlight. Its black button eyes reflected two tiny points of light. When the curtains settled back down, the moonlight withdrew slightly. But it did not disappear completely. It lingered in a thin band across the floor. The band ran from the window to the edge of her blanket. It looked like a path. It looked like an invitation.

The shadows followed the same gentle rhythm. They lengthened when the curtains rose. They shortened when the curtains fell. The dresser’s shadow stretched across the wall. Then it pulled back. The bookshelf’s shadow deepened. Then it softened. The rabbit’s shadow appeared on the footboard. Then it faded. Nothing moved quickly. Nothing broke the cadence. The room breathed. It breathed in long, slow intervals. It breathed as though it had all the time in the world.

Another breeze entered. Jennifer felt it move across her face. It lifted her hair again. The strands danced for a moment. They tickled her cheek. She smiled faintly. The scent of redwood filled her lungs. The coolness settled over her skin like a light blanket. The sheets beneath her felt smooth and familiar. The taste of the night air was clean and sweet. Outside, the redwood trees swayed. Their branches moved with a distant, softened rustle. The sound was like whispered conversation. The cooler air carried the movement farther up the hillside. The night felt wide and calm. The owl’s call drifted through the valley. It was quieter now. The distance made it sound gentle. Almost musical.