For the first time in months, Carmen was early. Not to work, not to a meeting, but to the trailhead on the east side of Pine Lake — the same place her family had gone every Saturday when she was younger. Back then, her dad carried trail mix in a baggie and her mother pointed out birds Carmen never remembered the names of. It had always smelled like pine needles and the kind of freedom you don’t appreciate until you’ve grown up and worn yourself down.
She sat on the hood of her car and waited. Her niece Josie was coming. Carmen had promised her they'd start doing these Saturdays again — just the two of them, at first. Her sister had been thrilled. Josie had been struggling with the kind of withdrawn sadness that often gets mistaken for quietness. Carmen recognized it.
Josie was fourteen, awkward and perceptive in equal parts, and Carmen didn’t want her to feel alone the way she had at that age.
A light blue car pulled up. Josie got out wearing old sneakers and a hoodie that said “I’d Rather Be Sleeping.”
Carmen smiled. “Ready?”
Josie shrugged. “Sure.”
They started up the path in silence. Pine needles crunched underfoot. The lake shimmered between tree trunks as the path curved gently around it.
—
After about twenty minutes, Josie finally spoke. “I told Mom I didn’t want to come.”
Carmen nodded. “Yeah?”
“She said you’d understand why anyway.”
“I probably do,” Carmen said. “But I’m still glad you came.”
Josie kicked a small rock off the trail. “I didn’t know what to say to her. I don’t really know what to say to anyone.”
“You don’t have to,” Carmen replied. “Walking counts.”
They went a little further, until they reached the clearing by the big flat rock — the one her dad used to call “the pancake.” Carmen laid out a folded blanket from her backpack and sat. Josie followed, hugging her knees.
From the bag, Carmen pulled out two plastic containers: sandwiches, a thermos of warm cider, and two oatmeal cookies. Josie blinked.
“You remembered the cookies?”
Carmen shrugged. “They’re required. It’s tradition.”
They ate slowly. Carmen poured cider into two enamel mugs. The warm cinnamon and apple scent filled the space between them.
After a while, Josie spoke again. “You don’t seem... sad. Anymore.”
Carmen looked out at the lake. “Not as much. But I still get heavy sometimes.”
“What helps?”
“Showing up,” Carmen said. “Even when I don’t want to. Letting the quiet be enough. And remembering I’m not stuck forever. Just today.”
Josie nodded, pulling her sleeves down over her hands. “I don’t think I believe that yet.”
“You don’t have to today.”
—
The sun had shifted by the time they started back. The wind had picked up a little, rustling the treetops. As they walked, Josie asked about birds. Carmen couldn’t name any, but they tried guessing.
When they got back to the parking lot, Josie looked at her and said, “Next Saturday?”
“If you want,” Carmen said.
Josie gave a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Maybe I do.”
As Carmen drove away, she turned the radio off. Let the quiet fill the car. It wasn’t the kind of silence that pressed in. It was the kind that softened the edges. And she welcomed it.
Would you like the next story to explore friendship, or a solo experience where someone reconnects with themselves?
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