The Weight of Gold

The path beneath Gerald’s worn boots was a shifting quilt of damp oak leaves and pine needles. Each step crushed a delicate, audible crackle, a sound that in other years might have felt like a welcome crunch, but now, it just underscored the quiet. The quiet was everywhere, a palpable thing, thick as the late autumn air.

He jammed his hands deeper into his pockets, the wool of his old coat offering little real comfort against the bite in the wind. It was the kind of cold that seemed to sink into the marrow, not just the skin. He’d forgotten his gloves, of course. Always forgetting something these days. Danielle would have reminded him, probably already had them in her own pocket, ready to pull out with a tut and a small, patient smile. The ghost of that smile, faint as woodsmoke, caught in the periphery of his mind.

A scrawny branch, heavy with moisture, snagged his hair as he pushed past a thicket of blackberry brambles, leaving a faint scratch behind his ear. He didn't bother to rub it. The dull ache felt almost… appropriate. He moved towards the stand of birch, their paper-thin bark peeling in strips, like old letters. He remembered Danielle saying once, 'They look like they're shedding old stories, don't they, Gerald?' He’d just grunted, probably, more interested in the way the sunlight hit the water, but her words, silly and whimsical, had stuck.

He should be scared. He was scared. But it was also kind of… exciting? Stupidly exciting. God, why did he even climb here?

Everything felt like that now – half-formed thoughts, memories bleeding into the present, a constant, low hum of what-ifs. He tried to focus on the trail, the way the moss grew in emerald patches on the north side of the rocks, the precise, almost mathematical pattern of bark beetles on a fallen log. Grounded, tactile. Anything to stop the spiralling.

The Unspoken Weight

He emerged from the dense growth onto the gravel track that wound around the edge of Farmer McGregor’s back pasture. A rusted wire fence, strung taut with ancient barbed wire, stretched ahead. A battered green Land Rover, caked in mud, was pulling slowly up the track towards him. Martha’s, probably. He knew the way it rattled on the loose stones.

He considered ducking back into the trees, but it was too late. She’d seen him. Her hand, gloved in bright pink, gave a small, tentative wave from the driver's side window as she slowed. He offered a weak, one-shouldered shrug in return, trying for casual. It failed.

The Land Rover crunched to a halt beside him, the engine ticking as she cut it. Martha, hair a bright, improbable red that clashed with the faded green of her gardening jacket, leaned across the passenger seat, lowering the window all the way. A gust of cold air, carrying a faint scent of fertiliser and wet dog, filled the gap between them.

'Gerald,' she said, her voice a little too bright, a little too loud, like she was trying to cut through a thick fog. 'Fancy seeing you out here. Not often you venture this far up.'

He nodded, shuffling his feet. 'Just… walking.'

'Of course.' She studied him, her brow furrowing slightly, a flicker of concern in her usually bustling eyes. 'It's been… well. It’s been a while since we saw you at the market. Bobbie mentioned you might be… keeping to yourself.'

He felt a flush creep up his neck. Bobbie. Always Bobbie. Quiet, observant Bobbie. 'I’ve been around.' The lie felt brittle, even to him. He knew he hadn't. He'd been retreating, carefully, methodically, from everything.

'Right.' Martha paused, picking at a loose thread on her steering wheel. 'Look, Gerald. We were all so sorry. About Danielle, I mean. Such a shock. Still can't believe it.' Her voice softened, losing some of its forced cheer. 'She was… she was a lovely woman. Always so full of life.'

He swallowed, a dry, painful act. 'Yeah.' He didn't know if this was supposed to feel… anything. Warm? Comforting? He just… didn’t feel alone, not for a second, when she spoke like that. But then the aloneness slammed back, harder than before. The words, meant to soothe, felt like sandpaper against an open wound. They made her real, and thus, more profoundly gone.

'You holding up, then?' Her eyes, a startling blue against her red hair, searched his face. 'You look a bit… thin.'

'I'm fine, Martha. Just… the season.' He gestured vaguely at the trees, the falling leaves, the grey sky. It was easier than admitting the truth, the way the season felt like an accomplice to his grief, mirroring the decay inside him.

'Well.' She straightened up, a sigh escaping her lips. 'You know where we are. If you need anything. A meal, a chat… Bobbie’s always around. He's been asking.' She offered another small, sympathetic smile, this one less forced, but it still felt like a weight, a burden of pity. 'Right then. I best be off. Gotta get these pumpkins to the farm shop before it closes.'

She put the Land Rover into gear, the engine rattling back to life with a cough and a sputter. He watched her go, the vehicle kicking up a cloud of dust and grit, until it was just a receding green speck against the darkening horizon. He didn’t wave back.

Echoes in the Ash

He continued deeper, past the familiar turn-off, ignoring the faint sign that pointed towards the village. He knew where he was going. A place he hadn't visited since… since before. A small clearing, hidden by a cluster of gnarled hawthorn bushes, where a fallen ash tree lay like a petrified giant.

The ash. It was where they’d carved their initials, clumsy and amateurish, with one of Danielle's old penknives. D+C. She’d laughed, said it was terribly cliché, but then traced the letters with her finger, a quiet, almost reverent gesture. He ran his hand over the rough, cold bark now, feeling the faint, faded indentations. The initials were almost gone, swallowed by the expanding tree, blurred by rain and time. Like everything else.

He sat on the moss-covered trunk, the damp seeping through his trousers, but he didn't care. He pulled out his phone, not to check messages, but to look at the single photograph he kept as his lock screen. Danielle. Her hair, a tangled mess of dark curls, half-hiding her face. Her eyes, bright with laughter, looking slightly off-camera. It wasn’t a posed photo. Bobbie had snapped it, years ago, at a summer picnic by the river. She’d been mid-sentence, probably complaining about Bobbie’s terrible jokes, or Gerald’s inability to properly butter a scone.

The image felt raw, immediate. Not a memory filtered through grief, but a glimpse of her alive, vibrant, imperfectly human. He traced the curve of her cheekbone with his thumb, the screen cold beneath his touch. He should have taken more photos. Told her more things. Listened harder. The litany of regrets was a constant, low thrum in his chest.

A cold drizzle began, fat, slow drops landing on the leaves around him, each one a tiny, wet percussion. He felt it on his face, mingling with something else. His cheek was wet. He didn’t wipe it away. The rain was cold, but the grief… that was colder.

He heard his phone buzz in his hand, a sudden vibration that broke the spell. A text. From Bobbie.

***Meet me at The Heron. Tonight. Please. It’s about Danielle.***