Morgan followed Mrs. Bell out of the woods.
“That is an incredibly unsettling thing to say and then just walk away.”
Mrs. Bell kept walking.
“You answered it, didn’t you?”
“I thought it was you.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Morgan stopped.
Mrs. Bell took several more steps before turning around.
“Yes,” Morgan said. “I answered.”
Mrs. Bell closed her eyes briefly.
“What?”
“Did it answer back?”
Morgan thought about the voice.
It had called her name twice.
She had called for Mrs. Bell.
Then the voice had told her where to go.
“Not exactly.”
Mrs. Bell waited.
“It said, ‘Over here.’”
The basket slipped from Mrs. Bell’s hand.
Mushrooms scattered across the ground.
Morgan stared at her.
“Well, that seems promising.”
Mrs. Bell crouched quickly and began gathering everything.
Morgan helped.
“What does it mean?”
“Tomorrow.”
“No.”
Mrs. Bell looked up.
“No more tomorrow. No more later. No more telling me half of something and expecting me to pretend the other half doesn’t exist.”
“Morgan.”
“There is an apple knocking beneath a mixing bowl in my kitchen. My fireplace produced a photograph of a man I’ve never seen. A cabin disappeared around me. I apparently visited that cabin as a child, even though I have absolutely no memory of it, and something in the woods knows my name.”
Mrs. Bell said nothing.
Morgan handed her a mushroom.
“I think I’ve earned at least one complete answer.”
Mrs. Bell stood.
“You have.”
Morgan waited.
“But I’m not the only person who gets to give it.”
Morgan stared at her.
“Who else?”
Mrs. Bell looked toward town.
“Tomorrow night.”
Morgan groaned.
“The Gathering.”
“The Gathering.”
By the following evening, Morgan had developed a strong dislike for traditions.
The Gathering had existed for as long as anyone in Bellweather could remember.
As a child, Morgan had loved it.
Main Street closed before sunset. Lanterns appeared in every shop window. Families brought food from home, tables filled the sidewalks, and eventually everyone made their way to the old Bellweather House at the end of Linden Street.
The house had belonged to one of the town’s founding families.
Now the first floor was used for historical exhibits, council meetings, weddings, and, once every fall, the Gathering.
Morgan remembered it as loud.
She remembered children running through hallways they had been repeatedly told not to run through.
She remembered cider.
She remembered stealing pieces of pumpkin bread from cooling racks with DC.
She remembered her grandmother pretending not to notice.
She remembered Mrs. Bell catching them once and handing them two more pieces before telling them to get out of her kitchen.
She remembered the parlour most of all.
Everyone called it the Golden Parlour because the room seemed to glow after sunset. Amber walls, old oak floors, brass fixtures, and enough candles to make the whole room shimmer.
When Morgan stepped inside, she was surprised by how little had changed.
The familiar warmth of cider and baked bread drifted through the house. Leaves had been woven through garlands along the staircase, and candles flickered from nearly every safe surface.
People noticed her immediately.
Of course they did.
Bellweather had never encountered a returning resident it couldn’t turn into community property.
Morgan survived three hugs, two comments about how much she resembled her mother, and one lengthy explanation of a knee replacement before she made it across the room.
DC was standing beside the fireplace.
“You came.”
“I was threatened with information.”
“That usually works.”
Morgan accepted the cup he offered her.
“Mrs. Bell?”
DC nodded toward the far side of the parlour.
Mrs. Bell stood speaking with two older men Morgan vaguely recognized.
“She tell you anything?”
“Only that apparently the woods have rules now.”
DC frowned.
“What happened?”
Morgan told him about the cabin.
His expression became increasingly less amused.
When she reached the photograph, she pulled it from her bag.
DC studied it.
“That's definitely your grandmother.”
“And Mrs. Bell.”
“Who’s he?”
“Thomas Mercer.”
DC looked up.
“Mercer?”
“You know the name?”
“Everybody knows the name.”
“I don’t.”
“You’ve been gone eleven years.”
“You keep using that as an excuse for this town being strange.”
“Because it’s convenient.”
Morgan took the photograph back.
“So?”
DC lowered his voice.
“The Mercers were one of the founding families.”
“Were?”
“None of them are left in Bellweather.”
Morgan looked at the photograph.
“Give me the least ridiculous one.”
“Thomas Mercer disappeared.”
Morgan looked up.
“The man in the photograph?”
DC nodded.
“When?”
“I think you already know.”
Morgan looked at the date on the photograph.
October 17.
Before she could respond, Mrs. Bell appeared beside them.
“You showed him.”
Morgan tucked the photograph away.
“He gives slightly better answers than you.”
“Only because he knows less.”
DC lifted his cup.
“I’m choosing to take that as a compliment.”
Mrs. Bell looked around the crowded room.
“Not here.”
Morgan stared at her.
“You brought me here.”
“I told you to come to the Gathering.”
“For answers.”
“And you’ll get them.”
“When?”
Mrs. Bell glanced at the clock on the mantel.
8:47.
“What happens at nine?”
Neither Mrs. Bell nor DC answered.
Morgan looked between them.
“Oh, wonderful. You’re both doing it now.”
DC frowned.
“Doing what?”
“The dramatic silence instead of answering a perfectly reasonable question.”
“I genuinely don’t know.”
Mrs. Bell walked away before Morgan could stop her.
Morgan sighed.
“I’m starting to understand why my grandmother told everyone to mind their business.”
“She had decades of practice.”
Morgan looked around the room.
That was when she noticed the chair.
It sat in the far corner of the parlour.
Old.
Wooden.
Empty.
There was nothing particularly remarkable about it except that the room was crowded and no one had taken it.
A woman stood beside it talking to a friend.
Neither sat.
Two children raced past.
One nearly bumped into the chair, caught himself, and immediately stepped away.
Morgan watched.
“DC.”
“Hmm?”
“Why isn’t anyone sitting there?”
He followed her gaze.
His expression changed.
“I never noticed that.”
“You grew up here.”
“So did you.”
Morgan looked at him.
Fair.
She crossed the room.
“Morgan.”
She ignored him.
The chair was older than she'd thought.
Its arms had been polished smooth by years of use. Small scratches covered the legs.
Morgan crouched.
Something had been carved beneath one arm.
She leaned closer.
T.M.
Her stomach tightened.
“DC.”
He was already beside her.
“You see it?”
“Yes.”
“Thomas Mercer?”
“Could be.”
Morgan straightened.
Across the room, Mrs. Bell was watching them.
She didn't look surprised.
The clock chimed.
Once.
Conversation continued.
Then again.
Morgan looked toward the mantel.
Nine o’clock.
Something changed.
Not dramatically.
No lights flickered.
No doors slammed.
People simply began reaching for their glasses.
One by one, conversations stopped.
Morgan looked at DC.
“What’s happening?”
He held his cup but didn't drink.
Around them, nearly every person in the Golden Parlour turned toward the empty chair.
Mrs. Bell raised her glass.
So did the others.
Dozens of them.
Morgan stood motionless.
DC slowly raised his.
Morgan stared at him.
“You said you didn’t know.”
“I didn’t.”
His eyes dropped to his own raised glass, confusion crossing his face.
“You’re doing it.”
“So is everyone else.”
“That is not an explanation.”
“I know.”
Nobody spoke.
For several seconds, the room remained perfectly still.
Then everyone drank.
Conversation resumed immediately.
Laughter returned.
Someone near the piano started playing again.
Morgan stared around the room.
“Did everyone just collectively decide that wasn't strange?”
DC lowered his glass.
“I don't remember doing that before.”
Morgan looked at him.
“You just did it.”
“I know.”
“You raised your glass.”
“I know.”
“To an empty chair.”
“Morgan, I know.”
He looked genuinely disturbed.
She found Mrs. Bell.
She hadn't moved.
Her glass remained raised.
Her eyes were fixed on the chair.
“Mrs. Bell?”
No response.
Morgan walked toward her.
“Mrs. Bell.”
Her arm lowered slowly.
Morgan stopped.
Mrs. Bell was crying.
“What happened?”
Mrs. Bell looked at her.
“Every year,” she whispered.
“What?”
“Every year we raise a glass.”
“To Thomas?”
Mrs. Bell shook her head.
Morgan glanced toward the chair.
“Then who?”
Mrs. Bell's eyes moved past her.
Toward the empty seat.
“For whoever didn't come home.”
Morgan felt the room grow colder.
Behind her, wood creaked.
She turned.
The chair was no longer empty.
The photograph Morgan had tucked into her bag was sitting on its seat.
Morgan stared.
She had never taken it back out.
Slowly, she crossed the room.
The photograph was face down.
Something had been written across the back beneath October 17.
Fresh black ink glistened beneath the candlelight.
Morgan read it.
YOU CAME HOME.
She stopped breathing.
Then another line appeared beneath it.
Not all at once.
Letter by letter.
As though an invisible hand were writing directly in front of her.
HE CAN TOO.
Morgan backed away.
Around her, the Gathering continued.
People laughed.
Glasses clinked.
The piano played.
Nobody noticed the writing.
Nobody except Mrs. Bell.
Morgan looked at her.
“Who?”
Mrs. Bell's face had gone pale.
For the first time since Morgan returned to Bellweather, she answered without hesitation.
“Thomas Mercer.”
