The car ride was long, but peaceful.
Junie rested her forehead against the passenger window as the trees blurred past in shades of pine and gold. Autumn had begun to settle in the Catskills, and everything smelled of moss and firewood and damp leaves. The kind of air that made you slow down. That asked nothing of you but presence.
Noah tapped the steering wheel in rhythm to the low hum of Bon Iver playing through the speakers. He hadn’t said much during the drive, but that wasn’t unusual. He was the kind of man who preferred silence when it was honest. And with Junie, it always was.
The retreat was a weeklong residency at a small art compound nestled deep in the woods—four cabins, a shared studio, no cell service, and one old landline phone for emergencies. Junie had applied on a whim,
