She crouched beside the collapsed tent, brushing aside a damp flap of canvas. Inside were the scattered remains of someone’s life: a flashlight, dead and rusted; a tattered journal half-soaked by rain; and a folded flannel shirt laid carefully over a rolled-up sleeping bag.
It looked like it had been left mid-packing. She reached in and tugged the journal free. Its leather cover was soft and cracked, the corners curled from moisture and use. What struck her most was the small image pressed into the cover—a hand-etched design of a bear, surrounded by branches.
It was subtle, but deliberate. Evelyn opened it slowly. The first few pages were still intact. Neat handwriting filled the lines, dated a few weeks back. The writer—who never signed his name—had come here to observe wildlife. He wrote about long days watching from blinds, about black bears foraging near the river, about the thrill of silence.
She flipped forward, her breath catching. There were sketches. Pages filled with them. Bears lounging beneath trees, cubs chasing each other, a large male crossing a stream. The drawings were detailed—careful, loving even. This wasn’t just a hobbyist. This person had studied them closely. Lived alongside them. And then the tone changed.