Gran's house smells exactly the way I remember. Cinnamon and vanilla with an undercurrent of dried herbs hanging in the kitchen. It's been a week since Knox dropped me at her doorstep, his truck disappearing around the corner like he couldn't get away fast enough. Seven days of trying to forget the taste of his lips. Seven nights of failing miserably.

I drag my finger through the condensation on my coffee mug, watching the early morning light filter through the kitchen window. The bruises on my face have faded to a sickly yellow, barely visible unless you know where to look. The cut on my temple is just a thin pink line now.

Gran bustles around the kitchen, humming off-key to some old song playing on the radio. She slides a plate of eggs and toast in front of me.

"Eat," she commands. "You've got a big day ahead."

Today's my first day at the Sunny Side Diner—the only place in Whitethorn that serves breakfast all day and gossip free of charge. Gran pulled strings with the owner, Maggie, who apparently owes her for setting her up with her husband thirty years ago.

"Not hungry," I say, but pick up my fork anyway. Disappointing Gran isn't an option.

"Nervous about the new job?" She sits across from me, hands wrapped around her own coffee mug.

"No." Then, "Maybe a little."

"Hmm." She studies me over the rim of her mug. "Or maybe you're still thinking about that mountain man who rescued you."

I nearly choke on my coffee. "What? No. Why would I—"

"Please." She waves a dismissive hand. "I may be old, but I'm not blind. I saw the way you two looked at each other."

Heat crawls up my neck. "There was no looking."

"Darling, there was enough looking to start a forest fire." She chuckles. "Not that I blame you. Knox Sullivan's quite the specimen, even at his age."

"Gran!" I sputter, mortified and oddly relieved at having someone to talk to about him. Even if it's my grandmother.

"What? I'm seventy-two, not dead." She winks. "And I have eyes."

I push eggs around my plate. "It doesn't matter anyway. He made it clear nothing's going to happen."

"Did he now?" She raises an eyebrow. "And what exactly did he make clear?"

I hesitate, unsure how much to share. But this is Gran—the woman who taught me what a tampon was and bought me my first condoms "just in case."

"He said it was a mistake," I admit. "That I'm too young, that I need time to heal."

"Smart man," she says, nodding. "Annoying, but smart."

"It's not like I want a relationship," I protest, the lie bitter on my tongue. "I just got out of one disaster. I'm not looking to jump into another."

"Mmhmm." She doesn't sound convinced. "Just remember, there's a difference between running away from something and running toward something else. One's escape. One's growth."

I open my mouth to argue, but the clock on the wall catches my eye. "Shit, I'm going to be late."

"Language," she scolds without heat. "And eat your toast. Diner's only a ten-minute walk."

I stuff half a piece of toast in my mouth, grab my jacket, and kiss her wrinkled cheek. "Thanks for breakfast. And for... you know."

"For my unsolicited wisdom about your love life?" Her eyes twinkle. "Anytime, sweetheart."

The morning air is crisp as I walk through town, leaves crunching under my boots. Whitethorn is both familiar and strange. The basic layout remains the same, but many businesses have changed since I last lived here. A new coffee shop has replaced the old bakery. The movie theater I remembered has become some kind of artisan market. It's like seeing an old friend who's had a makeover—recognizable but different.

The Sunny Side Diner sits at the corner of Main and Elm, its faded yellow awning and neon sign at least unchanged since I was a kid. The bell above the door jingles as I enter, announcing my arrival to the half-dozen early morning patrons scattered around the worn vinyl booths.

"You must be Meredith's granddaughter." A woman with flame-red hair piled on top of her head approaches, wiping her hands on a stained apron. "I'm Maggie. Your gran's been talking you up for days."

"Brynn," I say, shaking her offered hand. "Thanks for giving me a shot."

"Any family of Meredith's is family to me." She looks me up and down. "Besides, we're shorthanded since Tina ran off with that trucker. You ever waited tables before?"

"Two years at a campus café."

"Good enough for me." She hands me an apron with the diner's logo embroidered on the front. "Lily will show you the ropes. She's out back having a smoke."

As if on cue, the back door swings open and a girl about my age walks in. Her hair is cropped short and dyed purple, arms covered in colorful tattoos. She spots me and grins.

"Fresh meat?" she asks Maggie.

"Brynn Fletcher, Meredith's granddaughter. Be nice." Maggie points a warning finger at her. "No scaring this one off."

"One time!" Lily protests. "That was one time, and he deserved it."

Maggie rolls her eyes and heads back to the kitchen, leaving me with my new coworker.

"So," Lily says, looking me over, "you're the girl Knox Sullivan rescued. Town's been talking about nothing else for a week."

My stomach drops. "Does everyone know about that?"

"It's Whitethorn." She shrugs. "Someone sneezes on Monday, by Tuesday everyone knows what color their snot was."

"Gross," I say, but can't help smiling.

"So," she leans in, "what's he like? The Mountain Hermit. Up close and personal."

"The what?"

"The Mountain Hermit. That's what everyone calls Knox." She ties an apron around her waist with practiced ease. "He only comes to town for supplies or when the SAR team needs him. Otherwise, he's practically a ghost."

"He's... intense," I say.

"I bet." Lily wiggles her eyebrows. "Those quiet ones always are. Did you know he was some kind of special forces badass before moving here? Marcus—he's on the SAR team too—says Knox once took down a drunk hunter twice his size when the guy started waving a rifle around during a rescue."

"I didn't know that," I say, though it doesn't surprise me. There's a lethal grace to Knox, a controlled power I sensed from the moment I woke up in his cabin.

"Come on," Lily says, thankfully changing the subject. "Let me show you how this place works before the breakfast rush hits."

The next few hours pass in a blur of coffee refills, orders shouted to the kitchen, and small talk with customers who all seem to know exactly who I am before I introduce myself. Each one has a different version of my "ordeal in the mountains," as they call it—like the story's been filtered through the town's collective imagination, growing more dramatic with each retelling.

"Heard that a mountain lion had you cornered when Sullivan found you," says an older man in a flannel shirt, accepting his plate of hash browns.

"There wasn't—" I start, but he's already continuing.

"Lucky he was out there with that dog of his. Man's a damn hero, even if he doesn't want the credit."

I just nod and refill his coffee. It's easier than correcting him.

By lunchtime, my feet ache and my cheeks hurt from the customer service smile I've plastered on my face. Lily slides into the booth across from me during our break, pushing a plate of fries between us.

"On the house," she says. "First-day survival food."

"Thanks." I grab a fry, suddenly starving. "Does it get easier?"

"The job? Yeah. The town gossip? Never." She grins. "But you get used to it. Start using it to your advantage."

"How's that?"

"Information is currency here. Give a little, get a little." She pops a fry in her mouth. "For instance, I could tell you that Knox Sullivan has a son about our age who hasn't spoken to him in years."

My heart stutters. Knox's words echo in my head: "His choice. His mother's influence." The sadness in his eyes when he'd mentioned his son.

"Really?" I try to keep my voice casual.

"Yep. Big falling out after the divorce. Kid sided with the mom, I guess." She shrugs. "Nobody knows the whole story, but rumor has it the son blames Knox for the marriage breaking up."

Something cold settles in my stomach. "Does his son ever visit?"

"Not in the five years I've lived here." Lily leans forward. "Why? You interested in our resident mountain man?"

"What? No." The denial comes too quickly. "I'm just... curious."

"Uh-huh." She doesn't look convinced. "Well, if you are, get in line. Half the single women in town have tried to crack that particular nut. He's not interested. Or he's broken. Or both."

Not broken, I want to say. Just careful. Just guarded. Just afraid of wanting things he thinks he can't have.

"So speaking of interesting men," Lily continues, mercifully changing direction, "what brought you back to Whitethorn? I mean, California to here is quite the downgrade, no offense."

I hesitate, poking at the fries. "It's... complicated."

"The best stories always are." She leans forward. "Come on, you can tell me. I'll make sure it only spreads to half the town."

I can't help but laugh at her honesty. "My boyfriend of four years. Ex-boyfriend now. I caught him in bed with my roommate."

Lily's eyes widen. "No way. In your bed?"

"Yep." The memory still stings, but less than it did a week ago. "On my sheets. With my so-called friend."

"What a complete asshole," she says with genuine outrage. "Please tell me you set his stuff on fire."

"No, but I did throw a lamp and my textbook at him." I smile at the memory. "Then I just got in my car and drove until I hit the mountains."

"Damn." She looks impressed. "That's some real dramatic exit energy. I respect it."

"Thanks, I think." I dip a fry in ketchup. "Anyway, Gran's always said I could come home whenever I needed to. So here I am."

"Well, their loss is our gain." She raises her soda in a mock toast. "To new beginnings and ex-boyfriends getting exactly what they deserve."

I clink my glass against hers. "I'll drink to that."

"So what's fun to do around here?" I ask. "I know it's been a while since I lived here, and the town's changed. Besides gossip about mysterious mountain men, what's the hot spot these days?"

Lily laughs, allowing the diversion. "Not much. There's the bar—The Rusty Nail. It's new, opened about three years ago. Pretty decent live music on weekends. They renovated the old hardware store to build it. Hiking trails if you're outdoorsy. Oh, and movie nights at the community center every other Thursday."

Normal, small-town life. Exactly what I came here for. A chance to breathe, to heal, to forget.

So why does it already feel like something's missing?

The afternoon rush keeps us busy until my shift ends at four. I wave goodbye to Lily and Maggie, promises to see them tomorrow trailing behind me as I step into the golden light of early evening.

Instead of heading straight home, I wander through town, reacquainting myself with streets I once knew by heart. The bookstore where Gran bought me my first real novel, now with a fresh coat of paint and a small café inside. The ice cream shop that still has the same hand-painted sign, though the flavors have gotten more adventurous. The hardware store that's now The Rusty Nail.

I pause, staring at my reflection in the glass. The woman looking back at me is familiar but different—thinner, harder around the eyes, more guarded. Four years with Noah changed me. One night with Knox changed me more.

"Heard you had quite the adventure."

I turn to find Sheriff Winters standing beside me, thumbs hooked in his belt loops. He's older than I remember, silver hair where there used to be brown, but his eyes are the same—kind but assessing.

"You could call it that," I say.

"Sullivan radioed in when he found you. Said you were lucky to be alive." He shakes his head. "Those mountains can be dangerous."

"I'm learning that."

He studies me for a moment. "How's your grandmother?"

"Good. Stubborn as ever."

"Glad to hear it." He smiles. "Tell her I said hello. And that I haven't forgotten she owes me a peach cobbler from that bet last summer."

"I will."

He tips his hat and continues down the sidewalk.

When I finally make it back to Gran's, the sun is setting behind the mountains, painting the kitchen in warm orange light. She's at the stove, stirring something that smells like heaven.

"Perfect timing," she says without turning around. "Beef stew's almost ready."

"How do you always know it's me?" I ask, hanging my jacket by the door.

"Your footsteps. Lighter than your mother's were, heavier than your father's." She glances over her shoulder. "How was the first day?"

"Good." I grab plates from the cabinet, falling into the familiar routine of setting the table. "Met a girl named Lily. Purple hair, tattoos."

"Oh, I like her. Brings me fresh eggs from her chickens sometimes." Gran ladles stew into bowls. "What else?"

"Apparently I'm the most interesting thing to happen to Whitethorn since... I don't know, the invention of the wheel? Everyone knows about the accident. About Knox finding me."

She chuckles. "Small towns. No secrets."

"One guy thought I was attacked by a mountain lion." I shake my head, sitting down across from her. "The stories keep getting wilder."

"People need their entertainment." She blows on a spoonful of stew. "Did you learn anything interesting in return?"

I hesitate, swirling my spoon through the thick broth. "Lily mentioned Knox has a son. That they don't speak."

Gran's spoon pauses halfway to her mouth. Something flickers across her face—recognition, maybe, but it's gone so quickly I might have imagined it.

"Yes, I remember hearing something like that," she says slowly. "Don't recall the details, though. Memory's not what it used to be."

"Do you remember his name? The son?"

She frowns, tapping her finger against the table. "Something common. Nick? Neil?" She shakes her head. "Can't put my finger on it. Why the interest?"

"Just curious." I focus on my stew, avoiding her knowing gaze. "Everyone seems to have an opinion about Knox. Trying to separate fact from fiction."

"Mmm." She doesn't sound convinced. "Well, whatever happened between him and his son is their business. Same as whatever happened between you two in that cabin is yours."

My head snaps up. "Nothing happened."

"Brynnie," she says gently, "I wasn't born yesterday. There was enough electricity between you two to power the whole town."

Heat floods my cheeks. "We... it was just... he kissed me. Once. And then said it was a mistake."

"Was it?"

"No," I admit quietly. "At least, it didn't feel like one."

She nods, unsurprised. "And now?"

"And now nothing. He made it clear he thinks I'm too young, that I need space to heal from what happened with Noah." I stab at a chunk of beef. "He's probably right."

"Probably," she agrees. "But being right and being happy aren't always the same thing."

We eat in silence for a while, the only sound the clink of spoons against bowls. Outside, the last light fades from the sky, stars appearing one by one.

"You know," Gran says finally, "there's a tradition in these mountains. When you're lost—really lost, not just temporarily misplaced—you're supposed to find the North Star and make a wish. They say the mountains remember, and if your wish is true enough, they help guide you home."

"Is that what you did?" I ask quietly. "After Grandpa died?"

Her eyes soften. "Every night for a year. Then one morning, I woke up and realized I wasn't lost anymore. Just on a different path than the one I'd planned."

She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. "You came here lost, Brynnie. That's okay. Take your time finding your way."

Later, after dishes are washed and Gran has gone to bed, I step onto the back porch. The night is clear, the air sharp with the promise of fall. Above, the stars shine with impossible brightness, including the North Star—steady and unwavering at the edge of the horizon.

I think of Knox in his cabin on the mountain, wondering if he's looking at these same stars. Wondering if he remembers our kiss beside the fire. Wondering if he regrets calling it a mistake.

"I wish..." I whisper, then stop, unsure what to ask for. To forget him? To see him again? To understand why the thought of him fills me with equal parts longing and fear?

In the end, I don't finish the wish. Some things are too complicated, too raw to put into words. Even words whispered to the stars.

Instead, I just stand there, letting the night air wrap around me like a blanket, feeling the mountain's presence all around—solid and unchanging, just like the man who lives within its embrace.

Home, Gran had called it. The place where you're no longer lost.

But as I look toward the distant peaks where I know Knox's cabin stands, I can't help wondering if maybe, just maybe, I'm more lost now than when I arrived.