CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The damp earth beneath my feet yields slightly as I pad along the underbrush, my nose twitching, sifting through the myriad of scents that the forest offers. Pine, wet soil, and the faint trace of wildflowers that have dared to bloom early in spring—none of it is what I'm searching for. I pause, take a deep breath, and there it is, the unmistakable scent of Silas: a mix of river stone and pine, with an undercurrent of something uniquely him, like fresh-baked bread from our childhood.
"Can you still smell him?" Love asks, her voice laced with concern as she steps lightly beside me.
"His scent leads this way," I say, nodding toward the churning river ahead. We break into a jog, leaping over fallen logs and ducking under low-hanging branches, the muscles in my legs coil
