We never should’ve gone down that trail.
The sign was clear: CLOSED. Plastic tape fluttering, dirt path half-swallowed by mud. But Dana laughed and said, “It’s just a shortcut. We’ll be careful.”
And because it was Dana—calm, smart, unshakable—I followed.
Halfway through, the ground turned slick and uneven. I told her we should turn back. She just smiled and pushed ahead. Then, in one blink of bad footing, I slipped. By the time I climbed back up… Dana was gone.
I called her name. No answer.
I ran. Shouted. Still nothing.
With barely one bar of signal, I called for help. Two hours later, a rescue team arrived. They told me to stay put, but I couldn’t. I trailed behind them as they roped trees and scanned the cliffs.
That’s when I saw it—her orange jacket, torn and snagged on a branch near the edge.
When they reached her, she was conscious but trembling, clutching something tight in her hand: a small leather notebook, old and cracked, initials burned into the corner—M.R.G.
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