Chapter 3: Pine Hollow
Chapter 3: Pine Hollow
POV: Stella Morris
Location: Train
Timeline: Present
The face in my head kept sharpening.
That smug, self-satisfied grin — the one that said you're already falling for me, aren't you — blurred at the edges, then dissolved into something else entirely.
Greasy. Fawning.
"Hey there, gorgeous. Bet you think I'm pretty good-looking, huh? How about you—"
I snapped back.
The guy was still right there in the seat beside me, grinning straight at me, his eyes doing that slow, sticky sweep downward.
I'd been staring too long. Way too long. Long enough that he'd read it as an invitation.
I shook my head quickly and looked away.
He let out a low, mournful sigh — so quiet no ordinary person would've caught it. "What a shame."
I caught it.
Sharp hearing. Nothing I could do about that.
The intercom crackled. A station name echoed through the car.
The man clicked off his phone, stood up, and pulled his bag down from the overhead rack in one clean motion. Clearly getting off here.
He edged out into the aisle and paused, one last try: "You sure you won't reconsider? Come with me?"
I shook my head. Didn't look at him.
He gave an exaggerated shrug and walked away.
I watched his back disappear through the connecting doors, and something almost like a laugh rose in my chest.
Because back then, I actually had followed someone off a train.
Location: Train → Bus → Pine Hollow
Timeline: One year ago
When he stood up at the stop, he shot me one last suspicious look before heading out.
I waited roughly four seconds, tangled up in my own head.
If someone keeps following you, they're probably bad news.
My mother had said something like that once.
Should I follow him? Would that make me look like a bad person?
But following him would obviously be easier.
I turned it over, hesitated — and by the time I'd talked myself in a circle, he was already gone.
I breathed out. Not sure if that was relief or disappointment.
I got to my feet and followed the route the patrol officer had pointed out to me. I found the bus stop, where he was already waiting in line to board.
So. I wasn't following him. We just happened to be going the same place.
I got on after him. The bus was nearly full, and we ended up side by side in the back row.
The bus rumbled on for a long time. People trickled off at each stop — Pine Hollow sat at the edge of Michigan, far enough out that not many people were heading there.
By the end, it was just the two of us.
He'd glanced over at me more than once. Each time, he seemed to think better of whatever he was about to say.
Then the Pine Hollow announcement came on, and he stood. I followed him off.
The bus pulled away and hit us with a face full of exhaust.
The stop was nothing — a single post, a route board, a patch of cracked pavement.
He leaned against the post, shook a cigarette from his pack, lit it, let it hang from the corner of his mouth, and went back to his phone.
I hugged my bag to my chest and looked up at the board.
Pine Hollow.
Something dropped in my stomach.
Mom hadn't contacted her in years. I didn't even know how to describe how long it had been.
Did she still remember Mom?
What if she didn't want to see me?
What if she saw me and still said no?
I pushed all of it down. Took a slow breath. Get there first. Figure it out after.
"You've been following me this whole time."
I went rigid.
His voice was unhurried, a little rough around the edges.
He turned his head and looked at me, cigarette still in the corner of his mouth, gaze making one slow pass over me.
"On the train you kept shaking your head, acting like you had zero interest. And now you're here, not going home, just tagging along?"
He paused. "It's not dark yet. There are still buses. Go back."
I tightened my grip on the strap, reached slowly into the side pocket, found my phone.
Type it out. Tell him I'm not following him. We just have the same destination.
I pressed the button to wake the screen.
Black.
Dead.
I stared at it for two seconds, awkwardly shoved my phone back into my pocket, then stood up and walked over to him.
He frowned, impatience already in his voice: "I'm not lending you my phone or buying you a ticket."
I didn't respond to that.
I raised one hand and pointed at the route board.
Pine Hollow.
Then pointed at myself.
He stopped talking. Looked at me. Said nothing.
A beat of silence.
Then: "You mute?"
I am not mute! The word landed wrong and I felt the protest flare up immediately.
I just can't speak. That is a completely different thing.
But there was no way to say it, so I just pointed at myself again, then back at the board.
His frown deepened. He stared at me for what felt like five full seconds, jaw set, like he was running through possibilities and not liking any of them.
Then he spoke — careful, reluctant, like he was convincing himself as he went: "You're headed to Pine Hollow?"
I nodded.
He didn't answer right away. His gaze dropped to my hands, came back to my face, then he ran a hand over the back of his head.
He cleared his throat.
"My bad. Guess I got ahead of myself."
I almost smiled.
Yeah. You did.
He ground the cigarette out under his boot.
"Wyatt Hayes. I run the bar in town."
He pulled out his phone and held it toward me.
"I don't recognize you. Who are you looking for? There's nobody in that town I don't know."
I hesitated, then took it.
I opened the notes app and typed, one word at a time:
Dorothy Morris. Used to run a bakery on Main Street. She's my grandmother.
He looked down at the screen.
Three seconds of silence.
When he looked up, his face had cracked open.
"You're Dorothy's granddaughter?"
I blinked.
That tone.
Was he close with Grandma?
