My husband had spent years warning me never to set foot on that farm. So after he passed away and the lawyer handed me the key, saying that from now on the place belonged to me, I was ready to sell it right away and put everything behind me. But before making my final decision, I still wanted to see it once for myself. When the door opened, I finally understood why, all those years, he had never wanted me to set foot there.

And I knew, with the kind of certainty that comes only after the ground breaks open beneath your feet, that my husband had left me far more than a secret farm.

He had left me a map through a war he knew I would have to fight.

I slept badly that first night at Maple Creek Farm, if sleep is even the right word for the thin, drifting state in which grief and exhaustion take turns waking you. The farmhouse was warm, too warm if anything, with radiant heat beneath the floors and a fire laid ready in the stone hearth as if someone had expected my arrival with more tenderness than I felt prepared to receive. Yet every unfamiliar creak of settling wood pulled me awake. Every shift in wind against the windows became, for half a second, a car on the drive or a fist on the door or the ghost of Joshua moving through rooms he had made for me without ever saying so.

By dawn I gave up and rose.