THINGS WE LOST IN SUMMER.

CHAPTER 7- SHADOWS IN THE PINE.

Morning cracked pale. Light spilled thin over the trees, stretched and unsure, like even the sun didn’t want to wake this place.

Noah walked fast. Map in pocket scratching like claws. Didn’t look back at the house, couldn't. The windows behind him felt alive, glassy eyes that kept watch even after death.

He pushed deeper into the woods. Toward the lake. Toward the boathouse. Toward truth.

The trail wasn’t how he remembered. Thicker, darker. Brambles grabbed his sleeves. Roots waiting to trip. But his body knew it anyway. Muscle memory. Feet carrying him on the same steps he and Elia had once flown down laughing, racing, shouting, daring.

Back then it had been freedom. A summer trail.

Now it was a warning. Every branch creaks, every crow calls, every breath of wind whispers, " Don’t go further”.

But he did, a crack behind him sharp and close.

He whipped around. Pines swaying. A squirrel is darting up a tree but his skin prickles, every hair alive.

He wasn’t alone.

Casey!!

Had to be.

He pushed forward, faster. Boots sinking into mud, air thick and damp in his lungs.

The Boathouse appeared suddenly, like a ghost stepping from the trees.

The boathouse is sagging over the lake. Boards warped, roof curling up like wet paper, stilts sunk deep in the water.

His chest clenched. Too many memories hit at once. Elia is shouting from the roof. Elia is skipping stones. Elia’s grin when they carved N + E into the beam.

It had been their secret place and now it felt like a grave.

He climbed the steps. Wood groaned. The door swayed under his hand, moaning open slowly.

Inside dark stink of mildew, rot, old lake water.

Sunlight cut through gaps in the planks, sharp beams catching floating dust. The air looked alive with it. His eyes fell to the beam. His fingers found the grooves. N + E Still there. Still sharp.

For a moment he closed his eyes. Could almost hear her laugh. Could almost hear her whispering dares. Could almost believe she was standing beside him again.

But then he saw it.

The tarp.

Corner of the room. Lumpy. Wrong.

He pulled it back. Dust rose, thick and choking.

Crates. Stacked. Fresh wood. Clean, too clean for this ruin.

Black letters stenciled sharply LUXPORT SHIPPING.

His stomach turned.

Elia’s voice in his head, from the tape: the shipments down by the lake.

He touched the wood. Heavy. Wrong heavy. Not tools. Not storage.

Proof.

Crowbar leaned against the wall, rusted but strong. He jammed it into the seam, pushed hard. Wood cracked, split.

Inside bundles wrapped in black plastic, stacked tight.

Drugs. Money. Something dark. Whatever it was, it stank of rot and danger.

Proof. Enough to burn the whole town.

The Confrontation

Steps.

On the porch.

Noah froze. Crowbar heavy in his hand.

A shadow filled the doorway.

Casey.

Cap low, face in shadow. Calm. Too calm.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Casey said.

Noah’s throat burned. “Neither should you.”

Casey’s eyes flicked to the crate. Just a second. Enough. He knew.

“You don’t know what you’re into,” Casey said. Voice low, almost pitiful. “Walk away. Forget this. For your own good.”

Noah gripped the crowbar tighter. Elia’s words in his head don’t let them bury me.

He shook his head. “I can’t.”

Casey’s face hardened. Jaw tight. Silence like a blade.

Then flat, cold: “Then you won’t leave this town alive.”

The words hammered into the air.

Neither moved. Dust hanging. Lake water is licking the stilts below. Time itself is holding.

Casey stepped inside, slowly. Boots heavy on the boards. He wasn’t bluffing. Noah could see it in the set of his shoulders, the way his hand hovered near his belt.

The knife handle glinted.

Noah raised the crowbar.

Two men in a rotten boathouse, ghosts watching from the corners, Elia’s name carved in wood above them.

“You don’t have the guts,” Casey said.

Noah’s chest heaved. His arms shook. But his voice came steady. “I’ve got something better. The truth.”

Casey’s eyes narrowed. “Truth doesn’t matter if no one hears it.”

And then he moved.

Fast. Knife flashing.

Noah swung wildly. Crowbar smacked wood, splinters flying. Casey lunged. Blade caught Noah’s sleeve, nicked his arm, hot sting spreading.

They crashed into the crates. One split wider, bundles spilling. Plastic tearing. Powder dusting the air.

Proof. Everywhere.

Casey’s eyes went wide for a flash, rage sharp in them. He shoved Noah hard, sent him sprawling. Knife raised.

Noah scrambled, hand grabbing the rope, and flung it desperately. Tangled Casey’s arm just enough. Knife clattered.

Noah swung the crowbar again, wild, desperate. It cracked against the beam, inches from Casey’s head. Wood groaned. Dust rained.

Casey froze, breath heaving.

Noah’s chest burned, arms shaking. He could finish it. One swing more.

But he didn’t.

He dropped the crowbar, let it crash loudly.

Casey stared. Confusion, fury.

“I’m not like you,” Noah rasped. “I don’t bury people.”

Casey’s lip curled. But something in his eyes shifted fear, maybe, just for a heartbeat.

Then he backed away, slowly. A hat shadow hides his face.

“This isn’t over,” he said.

Boots heavy. Steps fading. Vanishing into the pines.

Gone.

Noah collapsed against the beam, blood seeping warm down his sleeve. Breath ragged, chest screaming.

But he was alive.

And the crates sat broken open around him. The proof was real. The truth was his.

He stayed a long time. Back against the beam. Hand on the carved letters. N + E.

He thought of her laugh. Her dares. Her hand tugged him along the trail. Her whisper: I didn’t leave you, Noah. I promise.

Tears came hot, steady. He didn’t stop them.

For the first time since that summer, the question stopped gnawing. He had the answer. Ugly, heavy. But truth.

And the truth belonged to her.

By afternoon he left. Crates sealed again, crowbar dropped. The rot is still waiting.

But the tape is in his pocket. That he kept.

He didn’t look back at the boathouse. Didn’t look back at the house. Left it all behind.

Walked the long road out of town. Pines swaying. Lake wind at his back.

Every step felt like carrying her. Not as a ghost. As memory. As promised.

The town would stay rotten. Casey would keep lurking. Shadows would circle.

But Elia wasn’t buried anymore. Not in silence. Not in lies.

She lived in the tape. In the map. In the carved beam. And in him.

Noah stopped at the edge of the woods. Looked back once, just once. Saw the pines, the lake, the roof of the boathouse sagging. All of it fading into shadow.

He whispered her name into the wind.

“Elia.”