The light from the late afternoon sun slanted through the workshop windows, painting golden bars across the wooden floor. Dust motes swirled in the beams like tiny constellations. Eli ran his hand across the worn leather cover of the ledger, now back on the cluttered workbench where they had first opened it.
He exhaled slowly. “We were so focused on the obvious before—dates, names, totals. But Sage was right. We weren’t asking the right questions.”
Kate leaned over his shoulder, her eyes scanning the columns. “It’s not just what’s written—it’s how it’s written. Sage said to look for what doesn’t belong.”
Eli flipped carefully to the pages they had bookmarked days earlier—entries dated between 1892 and 1894. His finger trailed down the neat rows of inked handwriting, the elegant cursive so consistent it might have been printed by machine.
Until it wasn’t.
“There,” Kate said, tapping the page.
Halfway down the ledger, nestled between two entries for livestock feed and tin roofing, was a single line that stood out—not just because the handwriting had changed, but because the ink had faded into a reddish-brown hue, like rust or dried blood.
"Ash falls where memory lingers. 38°39′22″N, 86°53′40″W. Keepers know."
They stared at the words. Eli read them aloud, slowly.
Kate’s brow furrowed. “Coordinates. That’s definitely what that is.”
Eli stood and walked over to the laptop perched awkwardly atop a stack of books. He typed the numbers into a mapping program. The screen refreshed.
“It’s… Martin County,” he said, eyes narrowing. “Near the Hoosier National Forest. That’s maybe twenty miles from here. Pretty remote. Almost nothing around it except woods and a few trails.”
Kate crossed her arms. “And what’s this about ‘Ash falls where memory lingers’? Sounds like a riddle.”
Eli turned the book toward the window, angling it in the light. The red-tinged ink shimmered slightly in the low sun, revealing faint smudges, like someone had written it with a shaky hand—or while emotional.
“Look at this,” he whispered. Below the coordinates, barely legible, were the initials E.A. The same ones they had found carved into the stone at the cemetery.
“Elijah Arvin,” Kate said. “He’s leading us.”
Eli didn’t respond right away. He was staring at the page, but his mind was drifting—hearing wind in the trees, fire crackling, and somewhere in that place between memory and imagination, the soft flutter of a white feather.
“What if the ash,” he said slowly, “is literal?”
Kate looked at him, puzzled.
“There was a fire,” he said, turning. “Sage mentioned it in passing. A fire in those woods, long ago. Burned through homesteads that aren’t even on modern maps.”
Kate pulled out her phone, typing rapidly. “It was 1911,” she said, eyes scanning the article. “Forest fire near Hindostan Falls. Several homes destroyed. No official records of who lived there… but some sources mention cabins, smokehouses, maybe even an old trading post. That could be where we’re headed.”
Eli nodded, already reaching for his jacket. “Then let’s get there before sundown.”
As they packed the ledger carefully into a canvas satchel, the workshop grew quiet. Outside, a crow called sharply from the trees, as if sounding an alarm. Kate paused, hand on the door.
“What do you think it means—‘Keepers know’?”
Eli adjusted the strap on his shoulder. “I don’t know. But I have a feeling we’re about to meet one.”
They stepped out into the fading light, unaware that a figure stood just out of view down the road, watching them from behind the trunk of a sycamore tree. Waiting.
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