Walter Masterson had a secret he kept from everyone in his life\nfor as long as he lived. He was a successful writer with a bevy of works on the\nmarket including a few that won coveted literary awards, one of which, his\nmasterpiece, was even used in school curriculums. His career was flourishing,\nbut that was no secret.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The secret that Walter kept from his family, his agent, his\npublisher, his fans, and every other person in his life was that his writing\nwas a slave to geography. In fact, he never wrote a single worthwhile word outside\nof one place on Earth he found by happenstance. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
During a long drive to clear his head of writer\u2019s block early in\nhis career, he came across a summer resort called Ravenwood tucked into the\nfoothills of the mountains towering around it. Beautiful trodden trails were\nsewn with thoughtful precision through the natural wonders of this bountiful\nvalley paradise, each leading to a place more spectacular than the next. Small,\nprivate areas of thought and reflection\u2026<\/strong>some with a few chairs and a table for intimate\ngatherings and others meant for individual peace\u2026<\/strong> were intermingled with cabins of\nall sizes and functions along the walking paths creating a grand tapestry of\ncreative influences.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Some cabins were used as temporary residences for invited guests\nwhile others housed common areas including a mess hall, a quaint coffee shop, a\ngeneral store, and even a small bar overflowing with worldly charm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n As unbelievable as the valley retreat was aesthetically to a\nbudding creative person like Walter, it was the other summer residents of the\nvalley that held the key to his personal paradise. The small seasonal\npopulation was limited to actors, directors, artists, and writers of all types:\nplaywrights, screenwriters, novelists, and poets. It was a medley of creators\nbouncing ideas and notes off one another, all searching for the perfect piece\nof work: their masterpiece. Walter found it intoxicating, and he finished his\ndebut novel by the end of his first summer in residence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n When he returned to his home in Solitude, Alabama, he found that the creative flow\nthat sparked over the summer had stalled. His first novel was a grand success; and by the winter,\nhe was feeling pressure from his publisher for a progress update on his second.\nHe had signed a three-book deal, but he didn\u2019t foresee the block that would\ncrush his spirit after that first fateful summer at Ravenwood.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He made excuse after excuse to his agent, who was taking the\nbrunt of the flack from the publisher, and pressed on until summer. When it\nfinally rolled around, Walter returned to the valley and let the wonder once\nagain wash over him. After long days sitting waterside swapping stories and\nideas with poets, endless nights in the bar lending his ear to the actor that\njust couldn\u2019t get a line right, and mornings sipping coffee with the songwriter\nthat was struggling desperately to find the perfect hook, Walter had started,\nfinished, edited, and completed his second novel. His sophomore work would\nbecome his most well known. It was the work that made him a household name.<\/p>\n\n\n\n From then on, fans understood that if Walter Masterson were to\nrelease something new, it would be in the fall. Everyone assumed that he wrote\nwhen he was locked in the study in his family farmhouse on the outskirts of Solitude, but he never\nwrote a word outside of Ravenwood. It was his secret. <\/p>\n\n\n\n ~<\/p>\n\n\n\n Walter sat at his small desk looking out the window across the\nflowing brook that ran under his cabin on its way down the valley. He liked to\nwork with his porch door open so he could hear the soothing sounds of the\nfalling water as it hurried over the rocks rushing to its end somewhere far\ndown the mountain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He pressed his wrinkled hands\nagainst the face of the desk and pushed his aging body out of his seat. He\ncreaked and cracked as he straightened before taking one last step out to the\nporch. The wood at his feet had grown coarse over the years and really needed\nto either be replaced or doused with water sealant to preserve whatever was\nleft. He placed his hands on the railing and leaned forward to admire the brook\na few feet below when a loud crack broke the serenity. He was just able to\nregain his balance before plunging face first into the rushing water. The\nrailing wasn\u2019t as lucky. That was close<\/em>.\nHe would report the need for maintenance at the front office before he left. He\nreturned to his room and locked the door behind him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n When he stumbled home from the bar early that morning, all that was left to finalize his latest work was\na few closing paragraph revisions <\/strong>– <\/strong>a project\nhe easily completed with his morning coffee. He gathered the pages scattered\nacross his desk and stuffed them in his attach\u00e9. He gathered the rest of his\nthings into a small suitcase and closed his cabin for the summer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The trail down to the community cabins wound\nalong lazily through the trees and was quite comforting. It was the first time\nthat summer he noticed that parts of it were somewhat overgrown. A fallen limb\nforced him off the trail at one point. He certainly didn\u2019t remember that on his\nway home and surmised that it must have come down after he passed. He didn\u2019t\nrecall any bad weather, but sometimes nights at the bar had a blurring effect.<\/p>\n\n\n\n As he made his way around the fallen brush and back onto the\npath, he heard a voice call out from deep off the trail in the direction of a\ncresting sunrise that pierced the birch trees.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWalter!\u201d shouted a familiar voice. \u201cCome over and give us some\nnotes!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Walter abandoned his luggage trailside and stepped through the trees to a spot next to the\nbrook where two of the summer residents sat talking. It was a lovely spot\nhidden in the just at a turn in the waterway that\nhe wished he had known about before that\nmoment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cGood morning, Madeline,\u201d Walter began. \u201cIt\u2019s lovely to see you\non such a brisk and delightful start to the day.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou\u2019re such a poet,\u201d said Madeline with a smile. She sat\ncrossed-legged on the bank too slight to cast much of a shadow. Her dark-rimmed\nglasses covered half her face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Walter extended his arm, and she\nblushed while raising her hand to meet his proffered high-five. \u201cGood morning,\nWalter,\u201d she said. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Madeline was an aspiring director who\ndabbled in screenplay writing as well. She wanted to be the female Tarantino; and according to the residents Walter was around\nthat summer, she was well on her way.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Walter shifted his look to the man sitting above her on the\nbench.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cRod, after last night in the bar I\u2019m surprised to see you up\nand at it so early this morning.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cInspiration doesn\u2019t sleep, Walter, you know that,\u201d replied Rod.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Walter had met Madeline for\nthe first time that summer, but Rod had been coming to Ravenwood for over ten\nyears by Walter\u2019s estimation. He had become a regular in the late-night bar shenanigans and Walter was very fond of\nhim. He was a towering black man in his mid-thirties that had a keen eye for\neverything performance-related. He was a teddy bear of a man that Walter had come\nto adore.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWalter, help me explain to young Madeline here that it\u2019s\nimportant for her as a director not to fall in love with what she\u2019s written.\nShe has to let the actors produce an organic interpretation or the work will\ncome off stale.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n This artistic feud had been ongoing throughout the summer and\nwas one of the many projects in which Walter had participated. Madeline\u2019s\npassion was directing, and she was invited to Ravenwood to explore her gifts in\nthat discipline. She came loaded, however, with a script she had written\nherself. Over the last few months, actors volunteered to be involved in her scene\nrehearsals as well as actual shoots that they analyzed in the screening room at\nnight. Madeline directed the scenes <\/strong>but was having trouble letting the actors run\nwith their own interpretations of her characters \u2013 something she would have to\nget better at if she were to create the next Reservoir Dogs<\/em>. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWalter,\u201d said Madeline, lowering her head while waving her hand in Rod\u2019s direction, \u201cbefore you speak, Rod is right. I know that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Madeline looked down at the script in her lap; then clutched it\nagainst her chest before looking up to meet Walter\u2019s eyes. She continued.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe\u2019s right, but how do you convince an artist to let go of something that grew up within them?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Madeline stared at Walter, but didn\u2019t expect an answer to the\nclearly rhetorical question. Walter\u2019s quick voice surprised her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThe only answer I can offer as a possible comfort is that every good artist in his or her time sacrifices a piece of themselves for the good of their work. In this case, you have to sacrifice one piece to allow the other to thrive. It will be your burden if you choose to continue along the dual path you\u2019ve chosen, but it will be your passion to fight this truth that will make you great.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Walter\u2019s words seemed to land softly with Madeline;<\/strong> and after closing her eyes a few short seconds, she gave way to an accepting smile.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWalter, how long have you been coming here?\u201d Rod said, shifting subjects before Walter had a chance to start saying goodbye.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019ve lost count anymore, son.\u201d Walter closed his eyes and stroked the underside of his chin. \u201cOver fifty years, I guess.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAs long as they keep inviting me,\u201d Madeline began, \u201cand I don\u2019t get locked up for murdering menacing actors like Rod here, I can see myself coming back for fifty years. I love it here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAs do I,\u201d Walter replied placing his hand gently on her shoulder, \u201cand I hope to live long enough to see you here for many of those years.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n With that, Walter bid them both farewell and made his way along\nthe remainder of the base path to the resort\u2019s common areas.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A musty stench wafted from the bar as he passed by its trademark\nsaloon doors, one of them dangling near the floor from a rusted hinge that must\nhave come loose from the rotting frame sometime in the night. It was an odd\nscene, he noted, almost as if the place was deserted. Even with the early hour,\nsomething in the silence seemed off. <\/p>\n\n\n\n He continued around the corner to the reception cabin and found Jupiter,\nthe resident handyman, hovering precariously at the top of a ladder in the\ndoorway of the main lobby tightening the screws on the \u201cWelcome\u201d sign. It\noccurred to Walter that he couldn\u2019t remember why everyone called him Jupiter,\nand whether or not he had ever known at all. He slipped it in the \u201cit\u2019s too\nlate to ask now\u201d file.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMorning, Jupiter,\u201d Walter said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cGood morning, Mr. Masterson,\u201d Jupiter replied.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m leaving for the summer and wanted to let you know that the\nrailing in my cabin gave way this morning. Splinters of it are probably passing\nby us down at the stream as we speak.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Jupiter looked at the weathered sign he was repairing and\nsighed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThis whole place seems to be coming apart, Mr. Masterson. I can\nhardly keep up with it anymore. I\u2019ll make my way on up the hill later today\nthough and take a look.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThanks, Jupiter. I know you\u2019ll have everything in top order by\nthe time summer rolls back around. I\u2019ll see you then and buy you a beer for\nyour troubles,\u201d Walter joked as they shook hands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m gonna hold you to that, Mr. Masterson,\u201d Jupiter replied.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Walter settled his account, turned over the keys to his cabin,\nand with his latest finished novel lying in the passenger seat next to him,\nleft Ravenwood one more time bound for his Alabama home.<\/p>\n\n\n\n ~<\/p>\n\n\n\n For over a year, Sharon Nappier prepared herself for the phone\ncall that finally came on a Sunday afternoon. Even the loss of her father couldn\u2019t\nshake the resentment for what could now be labeled as his final decision. A\ndecision she had struggled to understand since they last spoke.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Her husband Stephen stayed behind to care for their three children. Sharon felt they were old enough to understand death, but she feared that they would never really get why their grandfather had chosen to spend his final days alone. She didn\u2019t get it either.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Once she got her affairs in enough order to leave her life behind, she packed a few personal items and said her goodbyes. Cloaked in the privacy of her car, she pushed back the pain and pulled a crumpled pack of Salems from the glove compartment that must have been ten years old. Her hand shook as she lit one of them, fought back a high-school cough on her first drag, and pointed her car in the direction of the airport, bound to make arrangements for her father\u2019s return to Alabama.<\/p>\n\n\n\n ~<\/p>\n\n\n\n After a three-hour flight and a forty-minute rental car ride through the mountains of Colorado, Sharon pulled through the pristine entrance of Mountain Brook Village for the second time. The natural beauty on either side of the seemingly <\/strong>endless road leading through the wooded grounds was lost on her in that moment. The scent of the pines lingered without notice, and the streams whispered white noise. She could only think of how much she missed her father.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The base cabin sat solemn at the end of the long approach road, hugged by lush greenery that created a breathless juxtaposition of civilization and natural wonderment. There was no arguing how beautiful the place was, she thought, as she stepped out of the car and raised onto her toes to stretch her travel-weary legs. Other than the natural sounds of the setting, there were no signs of life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then <\/strong>Jonas Alexander appeared from around one side of\nthe building. Sharon recognized him immediately from her initial visit and\nincidentally, the last time she saw her father. He greeted her with a\ncomforting tone and asked the normal awkward questions that come with\nconventional small talk: How was the ride in, the flight, etc.? How have you\nbeen?<\/p>\n\n\n\n Jonas was a middle-aged man of average height, with horn-rimmed glasses and a tight, salt-and-pepper goatee. In both instances that Sharon had been in his presence, he wore a tailored summer suit that screamed Southern Gentleman – <\/strong>a look she assumed was rare in the area. <\/p>\n\n\n\n He directed Sharon into the building where she saw a few clinical-types working through their daily routine. One woman passed and gave Sharon a mournful hello with a look of condolence. She was wearing navy scrubs and carrying a clipboard, which in the cabin setting seemed painfully out of sorts. At the same time, it was the only thing about this place that made any sense to Sharon. It was the first moment she\u2019d felt anything normal since passing through the main entrance gate.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Jonas led her into a small conference room off the main lobby. She settled into the same chair she sat in a year prior and stared blankly at the empty one her father once occupied by her side.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Jonah broke the uncomfortable silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMrs. Nappier, let me just start by expressing our deepest sympathies for your loss. We appreciate you taking what must have been a difficult journey all the way out here to take care of your father\u2019s paperwork and release.\u201d His tone was genuine and delivered with a soft voice. Sharon found it comforting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI only wish I could have returned under different circumstances, but my father had other ideas,\u201d Sharon said in a monotone register fighting the urge to deliver the line with more of the angst she felt in her heart.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They went about the normal procedure she had anticipated; and after she felt like she had penned her signature enough times to own another home, she concluded her business with Jonah.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Jonah stood as Sharon gathered her things to leave.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMrs. Nappier, would you have a few minutes for me to show you something?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sharon couldn\u2019t think of a good reason why not, so she nodded and motioned for Jonah to continue.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt\u2019ll require a short walk, but I only ask because in your position it would afford me comfort.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Jonah really was a lovely man<\/em>, thought Sharon, well-placed in this natural haven to attend to lost souls.<\/em> She followed him out of the conference room and back outside where they started down a worn trail that led away from the main building and past some of what she assumed were residential cabins.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The scenery was breathtaking. Dozens of\nbright white birch trees rose high along the path casting finger-like shadows\nall around them as they walked. A small brook curved below them to the right\npushing out a gentle white noise that soothed Sharon enough to dull the slight\nchill in the air. The entire property, which seemed to encompass hundreds of\nacres, was framed with snowcapped mountains and the bluest skies Sharon had\never seen. It was untouched and clean.<\/p>\n\n\n\n After ten minutes of leisurely walking, Jonah stopped at a curve in the brook where a bench was sitting. The sun peeked just over the trees ahead and lit the dancing water and the majestic seat like a spotlight. Had it not made an abrupt turn, the brook would have run directly under it. It was painted white at one time, but years of wet and wind had penetrated its armor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThis is where we found Walter.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sharon jumped unnoticeably, not ready for\nJonah to speak as she absorbed the moment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI just wanted you to share his last\nexperience and I hope that you\u2019ll see, as I do, how blessed he was to go\npeacefully in such a picturesque place.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sharon searched for words. Tears, once damned\nby the confused eccentricities of her father, flooded her eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cJonah, I know that I\u2019ve come off as a heartless\nbitch,\u201d she blurted, leaning to grasp the bench\u2019s backrest with shaking hands.\n\u201cBut please understand that as beautiful as this is, I have no earthly idea\nwhat I\u2019m doing here. My father chose to leave his family when he needed us most,\nand for what? To come and live his final days in a place he\u2019s never been?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Jonah softly placed his hand on her shoulder.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019ve admired your father for years, Sharon,\nlong before I ever had the privilege of meeting the man. I obeyed his wishes in\nhis final days,<\/strong>\nand I\u2019m well aware that those wishes seemed odd at first. But he was of right\nmind when he chose to come here, even though the disease was starting to\nescalate. I\u2019ve never thought you heartless, not once. In fact, I admire your\nstrength in letting him follow his own path.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Jonas\u2019s demeanor shifted suddenly as he\nseemed to brace for his next question.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cFor my own curiosity,\u201d he continued, \u201cwhy do\nyou think he chose to come here?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe told me that it reminded him of a place\nhe used to visit,\u201d she answered, trailing off as she shifted her gaze back to\nthe passing water. \u201cThe man spent his entire life in Alabama, and to my\nknowledge never ventured farther than Georgia or Tennessee on family trips when\nhe was young. His life was in our small town <\/strong>and was driven by his writing. My\nentire childhood was spent listening to the muffled sound of him pounding away\non a typewriter in a dark room through a closed door. When he came out of that\nroom, he was my father. He was nurturing and loving; and I didn\u2019t mind the time\nhe spent in there because of how good he was in the time he was outside of it.\nBut he never left the house.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sharon paused to compose herself. Jonah stood\nsilent, allowing her the time it took to continue speaking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhen he was diagnosed with Alzheimer\u2019s,<\/strong> I was\noverwhelmed. My mother died when I was in my twenties,<\/strong> and I was an only child. When we\ngot the news, I didn\u2019t have anyone to lean on outside my husband and a few close\nfriends. Stephen helped me locate a special-care facility in our area so that\nwe, along with our kids, could be as available as possible. It seemed like the\nright thing to do. All I wanted was spend as much time with the man as I could\nbefore it was all gone. Then <\/strong>on a good day, he showed me a \u201cMountain Brook\nVillage\u201d brochure; and the rest you know.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He insisted, and there was nothing we could\ndo to change his mind. He wanted to say goodbye in Alabama, and come here to\ndie alone. So here I am, enduring the fact that I\u2019ll never understand now that\nhe\u2019s gone. Until you called,<\/strong> there was a glimmer of hope that one day it\nmight be made clear to me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Jonas handed Sharon a neatly-folded\nhandkerchief from his suit pocket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe wrote something,\u201d he said, \u201cduring his\ntime here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat?\u201d Sharon offered a barely audible reply\nwhile dabbing her eyes. \u201cHe hasn\u2019t written in years.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThere was a manuscript in his lap on this\nbench when we found him. It was handwritten and dedicated to you.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n Jonah watched Sharon closely with the hope\nthat he wasn\u2019t overloading her with information.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI put it in the safe in my office before\ncalling the attendants to care for Walter to ensure that yours were the only\nhands it fell to. As hard as it was for me not to, I didn\u2019t read anything past\nyour name. It wasn\u2019t my place.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Jonah led Sharon along the trail retracing\ntheir steps back to Reception. She was shaken when she heard the news of her\nfather\u2019s death, but her feelings on the subject had remained numb to this\npoint. Now she was experiencing an emotional flood alternating between confusion\nand flattery. The mere fact that she crossed her father\u2019s mind at all was a\nwelcomed relief.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They walked through the main entry, past the\nconference room and into Jonah\u2019s private office. It was a room Sharon had never\nseen. It looked like a writer\u2019s study with floor-to-ceiling <\/strong>shelves stuffed with books of every\ngenre. There were stacks of loose papers in orderly piles around the desk and a\nfew of what Sharon recognized as mid-edit manuscripts marked heavily with\npencil and highlighter notes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAre you a writer, Mr. Alexander?\u201d Sharon\nasked as she took a seat in one of two leather armchairs facing Jonah\u2019s desk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI enjoy writing, Mrs. Nappier, but I write\nfor myself, with no aspirations that something of mine get published. I find\nthat words flow from me much more easily in settings like the one we have\nhere.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sharon continued to look around as Jonah\nmoved to a small safe that was set on the bottom shelf of the far wall. There\nwere pictures of well-known writers and a few portraits she didn\u2019t recognize at\nall.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMr. Alexander, if you\u2019re trying to make\nexcuses for my father\u2019s self-imposed exile by presuming that he came here for\nwriter\u2019s clarity and inspiration, I\u2019m afraid you\u2019re wasting your time. The man\nwrote every novel and short story in his portfolio within a five-mile radius of\nSolitude, Alabama. Whatever inspiration he needed, he had.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Just then Sharon noticed a black-and-white\nphoto of her father when he was much younger. It was positioned on one of the\nbookshelves in a small black frame identical to the others. Jonah returned to\nthe desk with a bound stack of papers and followed Sharon\u2019s glance to the\nphotograph of Walter Masterson.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAs I mentioned, Mrs. Nappier, I\u2019ve admired\nyour father for a long time.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n Jonah reached across the desk and laid the\nmanuscript in Sharon\u2019s hands. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhy he chose to spend his last days with us\nI can\u2019t presume to say, but I\u2019d like to think that it afforded him an\nopportunity to write one last time, yes. It may not make any sense, but here is\nthe possible proof.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sharon looked at the\ntitle sheet now lying across her legs. Handwritten in the center was a one-word\ntitle: \u201cRAVENWOOD\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n She flipped to the next page and began to\ncry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n FOR MY LOVELY SHARON, WITH HOPE THAT SHE SOMEDAY UNDERSTAND:<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cALL THAT WE SEE OR SEEM IS A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM…”<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cPoe<\/em>,\u201d Sharon whispered to herself but loudly enough for Jonas to hear. \u201cHe always loved Poe. I always found him entirely too dark, but my father idolized him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sharon stood and excused herself after Jonas\ngave her a look of understanding. She walked back along the forest trail until\nshe reached the bench where they found Walter Masterson. She sat in the middle\nof the bench, took a deep breath, and began to read.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Page by page she tore through the manuscript without looking away once. Each word was a weight she dropped into the brook; not the brook in front of her, but one that carved through the fictional hills of Ravenwood, a world her father conceived as an escape.<\/p>\n\n\n\n When she finished, she felt the wet blanket of resentment that had been draped across her shoulders for so long lift away and disappear into the trees that surrounded her. It was <\/strong>as if that magical spot had the ability to absorb anything. Tears were falling down her face, but she emitted no noise. She could only hear the sounds of nature living well in a pocket of the world that now embraced her. She felt her father right there in the scent of the flowers and the push of the light breeze that glided around the creek bank. She knew in that moment that her father\u2019s talent came not from experience, but from imagination. She looked up at the birch trees and down at the brook. A butterfly came to rest on her knee for a moment before heading away with the wind. Mindful clarity overwhelmed her. It was a peaceful scene like the one she now found herself in which he lived all those years that he never came out of that study – a place so beautiful in every way that it could only be composed by an enlightened artist. A place he described vividly in this, his final work. It was suddenly clear to Sharon. His imagination was failing him, so he came as far as earthly limitations would allow. He came here, to this spot, like a dying dog seeking a comfortable place to lay his head one last time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sharon gathered herself enough to stand and take one last look around. Could this place truly be real, or was she having an out-of-body experience herself? She studied her surroundings intently because she wanted to remember this moment and everything about it. As she turned to leave, she noticed something carved on one of the bench planks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n NEVERMORE.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Poe<\/em>, she thought, and smiled.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Walter Masterson had a secret he kept from everyone in his life for as long as he lived.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":1455,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[11,12],"tags":[],"yoast_head":"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\t\n\t\n\n