Chapter 8 Early Arrival
POV: Wren
The glass doors of the Cascade Mountain Museum slid open with a hush that felt far too soft for how loud her heart was beating. Wren stepped inside, clutching the strap of her bag like it might stop her hands from shaking.
The lobby air was cool, carrying that familiar blend she’d forgotten she remembered—old stone, lemon polish, and something faintly metallic from the climate-control vents. Ten years hadn’t erased the scent. It hit her hard enough that her knees wobbled.
She stood still for a moment.
Just breathing.
Trying not to fold.
It’s just a building, she told herself.
Just walls. Just floors. Just a job.
But with each quiet step she took, the past came alive like dust rising from an old book.
Her boots clicked lightly on the tile—too loud in the silence, like the sound was tattling on her. She tucked her hands into her jacket pockets so no one would see the tremor in her fingers. The museum lights had only just flickered on for the morning shift, a soft gold glow that seemed to stretch shadows instead of chasing them.
Wren glanced around.
Everything was polished.
Brighter.
Sharper.
New.
And everywhere she looked, she saw marks of him.
Jonah’s glass case labels—she knew that particular serif font anywhere.
Jonah’s arrangement style—simple, clean, purposeful, balanced.
Jonah’s color choices—warm neutrals instead of the old sterile grays.
Her throat burned.
She forced herself to walk toward the reception desk, but no one was there yet. She was early. An hour early. Too early. The kind of early that came from lying awake all night, staring at a ceiling that didn’t feel like hers, trying not to run away.
Her breath fogged the glass of the front exhibit as she passed. A mountain lion, restored beautifully—probably by someone Jonah hired long after she left. She stopped and pressed her lips together.
“Hello?”
The voice behind her was gentle, older, warm enough to make her stiffen. She turned quickly.
A man in a dark cardigan and wire-frame glasses stood near the hallway doors, holding a travel mug in one hand. His beard was white around the chin, his hair mostly salt with a little pepper, and his eyes were soft in a way that made her feel seen even though he hadn’t said anything else yet.
He smiled.
Not a big smile—just enough to say I mean no harm.
“You must be our early arrival,” he said, adjusting the mug. “W. Blackwood?”
Wren nodded, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yes. Sorry. I know I’m too early. I just— I didn’t want to risk being late.”
“Early is good,” he replied, stepping closer. “Early tells me you care. I’m Dr. Marcus Webb.”
The name clicked.
Jonah’s mentor.
Her shoulders tensed before she could stop them, and Webb caught the movement. His smile remained, but his eyes grew knowing in a way that made her stomach twist.
He gestured toward the side hallway. “Come. Let me show you around a bit before the building fills.”
Wren followed him, grateful not to stand still and be consumed by memories.
The hallway lights hummed softly overhead. Each step brought a new corner she recognized—even if it had changed. New floors. New handrails. Fresh paint. Jonah had modernized everything, but the bones of the place were still the same.
“You’ve worked in museums before,” Webb said as they walked. “But Cascade is… unique.”
“I know,” she said quietly, then winced. She hadn’t meant to say that out loud.
Webb didn’t turn. “Most people do. This place leaves imprints.”
Wren swallowed. Hard.
He knows something.
The thought poked at her ribs, too sharp.
They passed a small window overlooking the back courtyard. Beyond it, morning fog swirled low over the grass. The sound of distant construction echoed lightly—someone setting up an outdoor display for gala week, no doubt.
“Do mornings usually start this quiet?” Wren asked, grateful for a neutral topic.
“They do,” Webb said. “Our director likes to arrive before everyone else. Sets the tone for the day.”
Director.
Not Jonah.
Not his name.
Her chest tightened in a way she tried to hide.
Webb paused at the next door and opened it for her. “Here’s our prep corridor. You’ll be in and out of this area often.”
The room smelled like fresh paint and cool air. The walls were lined with equipment: gloves, masks, brushes, solvents. Everything organized. Everything is placed with care. Too much care.
Wren traced a finger along one of the neatly labeled drawers.
“You said the director oversees mornings?” she asked, trying to sound casually curious.
“Yes,” Webb replied. “He’s dedicated. Too dedicated, sometimes.”
“Is he… strict?” she asked softly.
Webb laughed once, a warm, low sound. “Fair. Fair to a fault. He gives more than he gets.”
She nodded, unsure how to respond.
“He’s also been hurt,” Webb added, almost like an afterthought. But the tone wasn’t casual. It was deliberate. Quiet. Weighted. “People forget that men who look steady can still break.”
Wren’s hand froze on the drawer handle.
Her pulse thumped once against her throat—hard enough to feel like a bruise blooming beneath her skin.
“He sounds… good,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“He is,” Webb replied.
Something in his tone made her meet his gaze.
He was studying her.
Not judging.
Not prying.
Just… knowing.
She looked away quickly.
Webb continued walking, letting the moment fall away like a leaf off a branch. “Come. The restoration lab is just ahead.”
They stepped into a spacious room with high ceilings and wide tables, sunlight pouring from large windows. The air smelled of fresh cedar, leather, alcohol wipes, and something like earth.
Wren stopped in her tracks.
It was beautiful.
Truly beautiful.
The kind of lab she used to dream about back when she and Jonah were young and naive and stupidly hopeful.
Her chest tightened again, but this time it hurt deeper.
She walked inside slowly, letting her fingertips skim the smooth edge of a workstation. The surface was sturdy, polished, and unscarred, with a clean slate.
“You like it?” Webb asked beside her.
“It’s…” Her voice cracked. She cleared it. “It’s incredible.”
“Jon—” Webb stopped himself, swallowing the name before it escaped fully. “The director poured a lot of time into this. He wanted it right.”
Wren breathed in sharply.
Webb noticed.
He stepped to a nearby table and lifted a clipboard, flipping a few papers. “Your first projects will be small. Soft tissue stabilization, some cleaning tasks, and a few restorations are in progress. We don’t throw people into the deep end here.”
“That’s good,” Wren said. “I—I like small starts.”
“Do you?” he asked gently.
She blinked. “What do you mean?”
“You seem like someone who tends to leap. For better or worse.”
Her breath caught.
“I don’t leap anymore,” she whispered.
Webb’s expression softened. “People say that when they’re tired, not when they’re done.”
The words cracked something inside her so sharply she had to grip the edge of the workstation to steady herself.
He turned away again, giving her space, letting silence be a cushion instead of a wall.
She took a slow breath.
Her eyes drifted to the far corner of the room, where a set of large crates stood stacked neatly. Each was stamped with the museum’s logo and a bold marking:
NEW COLLECTION — HANDLE WITH CARE
She stepped closer. Webb watched her quietly.
“These arrived yesterday,” he said. “Some of the most delicate pieces we’ve acquired in years. A donation with… unusual terms.”
Wren brushed her fingertips over the crate’s wooden edge. It was cool under her touch. Solid. Familiar.
“Will I be working on these?” she asked.
“In time.”
She nodded again, letting the silence stretch between them.
Finally, Webb cleared his throat. “Would you like to see the rest of the floor?”
“Yes,” she said, steadying her breathing. “Please.”
He motioned for her to follow.
As they walked back into the hallway, Wren caught glimpses of small touches that made her chest twist. A plant by a window, she remembered Jonah always wanting. A framed photo of the mountain ridge he used to hike. A particular brand of hand soap in the restroom—lavender, his favorite scent, even though he always pretended otherwise.
Each detail felt like a hand pressing against her spine.
Pushing her forward.
Pushing her back.
Pushing her somewhere she wasn’t sure she could handle.
They reached the corridor leading to the administrative wing.
Webb slowed his steps. “We’ll head to the director’s office next.”
She felt her pulse spike.
“Now?” Her voice cracked. She swallowed. “Already?”
“You’re scheduled for nine,” Webb said kindly. “But he likes punctuality. And I suspect he’s been straightening his office since sunrise.”
Wren laughed, but it came out shaky. “That sounds… right.”
Webb stopped walking.
Wren almost bumped into him.
He turned toward her slowly, his eyes gentle, his voice softer than the morning light.
“Wren.”
Her name sounded fragile in his mouth, like he’d been holding it for years.
She froze.
He sighed quietly, and the warmth in his eyes deepened—something sad, something understanding, something she didn’t deserve.
“You don’t need to pretend with me,” he murmured. “Not about why you’re really here. Not about who he is to you.”
Her breath vanished.
Completely.
He lifted one hand, not touching her, just offering stillness. “He’s a good man, a fair one at that. And whatever happened back then… he’s carried it. Much longer than he should have.”
Wren could only stare at him, her pulse shaking every part of her body.
And that’s when she realized—
Webb didn’t think he knew who she was.
He knew.
Exactly.
Every piece.
Her throat went dry.
Before she could speak—before she could deny or run or crumble—
A soft, distant sound carried down the hall.
A door opening.
Then a voice. Jonah’s voice. Low. Controlled. Too familiar.
“Dr. Webb? Is she here yet?”
Wren’s stomach dropped.
Webb gave her a single, steady look. Not pity. Not warning. Just truth.
“It’s time,” he said.
And Wren turned toward the voice she had spent ten years trying to forget.
