Chapter 2

Chapter Two

T amlyn

The Jeep rattles beneath me, the old engine groaning as the tires bounce over the uneven dirt road. Gravel spits from the wheels, pinging off the underside, but I smile, loving every jolt. There's something freeing about the roughness, the way it shakes everything loose, like it's getting rid of the weight I've been carrying. My hands tighten on the steering wheel, and the wind whips through the rolled-down windows, tangling the loose strands of hair that have escaped from my messy bun.

The air smells fresh here. Earthy, clean. It's that kind of scent that fills your lungs and makes you feel alive. I take a deep breath, letting the cool mountain air fill me. Copper Mountain rises in the distance, tall and ancient, its jagged peaks cutting through the sky like something out of a dream. My heart flutters, a familiar thrill bubbling up as I catch sight of the small town nestled against the base of the mountain. Another new place. Another blank canvas.

I can't help but laugh softly to myself. "Another place, another adventure."

The words roll off my tongue like a mantra, something I've said far too many times. It's always the same. A new location, a new project, a new start. It's exhilarating, the unknown, but there's something else lingering beneath the excitement. Something heavy.

I try to ignore it, shifting in my seat as I round the last bend in the road. The dirt path widens, leading me toward the edge of the forest, and there it is—my little cabin. Weathered and simple, with a porch that sags just enough to make me smile. It's perfect. It's quiet, tucked away at the edge of the woods, surrounded by tall pines that stretch their long shadows across the ground.

I pull up and kill the engine. Silence rushes in, wrapping around me. I sit there for a second, gripping the steering wheel and staring at the cabin, the whisper of doubt creeping in.

"Maybe this time," I murmur, my voice barely audible. But I don't believe it. I never do.

Still, I swing the door open and step out, my boots hitting the dirt with a solid thud. The ground feels good beneath my feet. Real. Grounded. I stretch, raising my arms high above my head, feeling my muscles pull, and for a brief moment, the weight I've been carrying disappears.

This is home. At least for now.

The mountain looms above me, strong and wild, calling to that restless part of me that's always searching for the next thing, the next thrill. My eyes sweep over the dense forest, the rich green of the trees blending into a blur of endless possibilities. There's so much to explore, so much to discover.

I grin, the excitement bubbling up again, pushing away the doubt. "The mountain is mine," I say, as if claiming it for myself.

I move to the back of the Jeep and pop open the hatch, pulling out my equipment. Notebooks, my camera, a field guide to the plants of this region—it all tumbles into my arms. I balance the load as best I can and make my way up to the porch, my boots scuffing against the wooden steps. They creak under my weight, but the sound is comforting, solid.

I push open the door, stepping inside the cabin. It's small but cozy, with wooden beams crisscrossing the ceiling and a stone fireplace tucked into the corner. A single bed with a worn quilt sits against the far wall, and there's a tiny kitchen off to the side. It's not much, but it'll do. It always does.

I set my things down on the table and take a deep breath, surveying the space. It smells like wood and dust, the kind of smell that reminds me of childhood, of old houses and faraway places. I glance around, and for a moment, I imagine what it would be like to settle down, to stay in one place, to make it more than just a pit stop. But the thought slips away as quickly as it comes, replaced by the familiar hum of excitement.

The forest is waiting.

I grab my camera and botany kit, slinging them over my shoulder. The door swings shut behind me with a satisfying thud as I step back into the sunlight. The trees sway gently in the breeze, whispering their secrets. My boots crunch over the dirt as I make my way toward the edge of the woods, my heart racing with the thrill of what lies ahead.

I crouch down near a patch of moss, brushing my fingers over the soft green surface. It feels alive, like it's breathing beneath my fingertips.

"Look at you," I whisper, smiling to myself. I snap a photo, capturing the moment, and then scribble some quick notes in my journal. The plants here are different—older, more vibrant. There's something rare about them, something that calls to me.

I straighten, glancing up at the towering pines that surround me. The forest stretches out in every direction, wild and untamed, just the way I like it. This is where I belong, out here in the wilderness, where everything feels vast and endless. No rules, no expectations, just me and the mountain.

But even as I think it, that familiar doubt creeps in again. How long before the thrill wears off? How long before I move on, just like I always do?

I shake my head, pushing the thought aside. One thing at a time. For now, I've got the mountain. I've got the forest. And that's enough.

I take a deep breath, letting the scent of pine and earth fill me, grounding me. The trees sway, their branches whispering in the wind, and I smile. Copper Mountain might be just another stop on my journey, but there's something about this place that feels different.

Maybe, just maybe, it'll be enough to keep me here.

I drop my bag on the cabin's old, worn table, the thud of it too loud in the silence. The place is small—wooden beams overhead, walls weathered by time, and a fireplace that looks like it's seen more winters than I have. It's cozy, but temporary. The kind of temporary I'm used to.

I unzip my bag, and out spill the essentials: notebooks, maps, my camera, and, of course, my botany kit. I set them out carefully, one by one, like I'm preparing for some kind of ritual. There's a sense of purpose in the routine, a comfort in doing things the same way, even though I know it won't last. My touch is light, almost indifferent. I know better than to get attached to anything or anywhere.

My fingers linger on a small leather pouch tucked inside the bag—a few photos from my travels, a handful of small trinkets. I hesitate, my hand hovering over them. I've carried these things with me everywhere, reminders of places I've been, people I've met. But I don't set them out. Not yet. Instead, I reach for the smooth stone I keep with me—a pebble from the first forest I ever fell in love with. It's cool in my palm, grounding. A reminder that nothing lasts forever, and that's okay. It's always okay.

I pocket the stone and move toward the window, my eyes drifting to the thick line of trees just beyond the cabin. There's something about Copper Mountain with it's tiny village nestled into the side of a big mountain in the deep woods of northern Michigan–it's quaint, something different, something alive. The trees seem older, wiser, their branches swaying as if they're trying to whisper secrets I'm desperate to hear.

The forest is calling. I can feel it.

Grabbing my camera and the botany kit, I push open the cabin door. The cool breeze greets me like an old friend, and I step outside, leaving the walls behind. The trees stretch out in front of me, endless and wild. This is where I belong—out here, where everything is untamed and unclaimed. The weight I didn't realize I'd been carrying slips off my shoulders as I breathe in the pine and earth. The forest feels alive, humming with energy, and I can't help but grin as I walk toward the treeline.

I crouch down beside a patch of moss, my fingers brushing over its soft, green surface. The texture is different here, denser, older.

"Look at you," I murmur, lifting my camera and snapping a few photos. The shutter clicks, capturing the moment, preserving it. I dig into my notebook, jotting down quick notes before leaning in to examine a tiny sprout peeking through the undergrowth. The plants here feel special, rarer, like they've been untouched by time. This mountain has its own ecosystem, and I can already tell it's going to be a treasure trove of discovery.

I love this feeling—this thrill of the unknown, the promise of finding something new, something hidden. It's addictive. I snap another photo, already thinking about the article I'll write, the research I'll dive into.

But there's something else lingering beneath the excitement. That familiar feeling, like a splinter just beneath the skin. A question I never quite want to face but can't fully shake.

Could this place be different?

I straighten up and look around, my eyes scanning the towering trees, the way their branches knit together like they're protecting something. There's a stillness here, a kind of permanence I've never really known. I've moved from one place to the next for as long as I can remember—never staying long enough to make anything or anyone stick. I'm good at leaving before things get complicated, before anything has a chance to settle.

But this mountain feels different. It feels like it's trying to root me in place, like it wants me to stay.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Tamlyn," I mutter, shaking off the thought. It's always the same. The thrill of the new place, the lure of fresh possibilities, but it never lasts. I've learned to keep things light, to keep moving. I can't let myself believe this time will be any different.

I push deeper into the woods, my boots sinking into the rich earth with every step. The trees close in around me, their leaves rustling in the breeze, and I feel a sense of calm wash over me. The forest is so quiet, so untouched. It's easy to lose yourself here, to let everything else fall away.

I spot a vibrant green fern growing between two large rocks and kneel beside it, brushing the dirt from its delicate leaves.

"Well, aren't you a beauty," I say softly, lifting my camera to capture the moment. The sunlight filters through the canopy above, casting a dappled glow on the fern, making it look like something out of a fairytale.

There's a part of me that wants to believe this place could be home, that I could put down roots here. But I know better. I always do. The mountain might be beautiful, but I'm not the kind of person who stays. I move, I explore, I find what I need, and then I leave before anything can tie me down. It's easier that way.

Still, as I stand and look around, a tiny part of me wonders if maybe—just maybe—Copper Mountain could be different. Maybe this time, I won't feel the urge to pack up and go once the excitement fades.

"One thing at a time," I tell myself with a soft smile, brushing the dirt from my hands. For now, it's just me and the mountain. There's so much to explore, so much to uncover. I can feel the secrets of this place waiting just beneath the surface, and I'm ready to find them.

But a small voice in the back of my mind whispers that maybe, this time, I'm the one who's going to be found.