The first time Eliza Callahan saw the mountain, it was wrapped in a veil of dawn mist, the peaks kissed with gold like a secret whispered from the heavens.
She stood barefoot on the porch of the old stone cabin, her breath curling in the crisp air, arms crossed against the chill. The Mountain of Light—locals called it that, half in reverence, half in fear—rose like a sleeping god across the valley, massive and ancient, its slopes shrouded in pine and cloud. She'd seen photographs before, grainy and decades old in her grandmother's worn album. But nothing had prepared her for the sheer presence of it.
It had taken her three days, two flights, a rickety rental car, and one flat tire to get here. But the journey, frustrating as it was, felt like a necessary penance. For running away. For forgetting. For waiting this long.
Eliza had come back for answers.
"Miss Callahan?"
She turned. The caretaker, a stocky man with gray sideburns and a wary smile, stood behind her. Jim Wallace had worked the property for over twenty years and greeted her with the wary politeness people reserve for outsiders, even ones with blood ties to the land.
"You settle in alright?"
"As well as I could." She offered a smile, faint and tired. "Still a little overwhelmed."
"Not much changes up here. That can be good, or not, depending on what you're lookin' for."
She studied him a moment, then looked back at the mountain. "Do you believe in it?"
Jim's brow creased. "In what?"
"The stories. That it—" she hesitated, "calls people. That it gives them something. Takes something, too."
He shifted, uncomfortable. "Stories are stories, Miss Callahan. Your grandmother had her own with this place, that's true enough. But mountains don't give or take. People do."
Eliza didn't argue. She wasn't sure she believed the stories herself. Not yet.
Inside, the cabin was a mix of memory and dust. Her grandmother's things still sat where they'd always been—teacups lined in neat rows, books crammed into shelves, the scent of lavender and old paper clinging to the air like a ghost. It was both comforting and eerie, a place held in time.
She ran her fingers over the stone mantel, where a single frame faced outward. Her grandmother's face smiled from it—sharp cheekbones, steel-gray eyes. Beneath the photo was a slip of paper, yellowed with age.
"The light always finds the truth."
Eliza touched the note like it might burn her.
That night, after the fire had dwindled to coals and the woods beyond the cabin creaked with unseen life, Eliza stepped out again. The moon hung low, casting silver across the world. And the mountain—the Mountain of Light—seemed to glow from within. Just for a moment. As if answering her presence. As if watching her back.
And deep inside her chest, a pressure she hadn't felt in years stirred.
Not quite fear.
Not quite hope.
But something.