In the shadow of the Rockies, the morning sunlight broke over the sleepy town of Glenridge, Colorado. Autumn had already dusted the trembling aspens gold, and the scent of distant wildfire lingered in the breeze—a reminder that nothing was ever quite still in the American West.Caleb Jordan stepped out onto his porch, coffee cup in hand, the mug emblazoned with the fading flag of a high school he'd never attended. Down at the corner, Mrs. Martinez was setting up her fruit stand as she'd done every Saturday for thirty years, her radio humming threads of old country ballads between the news: another infrastructure bill, another presidential speech, another storm brewing in the Gulf.A pickup rumbled past, its driver giving Caleb a familiar nod. Glenridge was the kind of place where everyone knew each other's business, or at least thought they did. But after last summer—after the fire, the flood, and the strangers who drifted in one by one—Caleb wasn't so sure security was more than an illusion.Across the street, the neon sign crowning Dottie's Diner flickered to life. The old-timers were gathering, just like always, to argue over pie and politics beneath walls crowded with snapshots: soldiers home and gone, touchdowns on muddy fields, a parade from some July now barely remembered.Caleb took a slow sip, watching the blue heron glide down over the river bend, then glanced at the battered mailbox standing sentinel at the end of his drive. Yesterday, he'd found a letter there—no return address. He hadn't opened it yet; something about the handwriting had looked out of place, urgent. Today, maybe, once the coffee was gone and the world felt less uncertain, he'd break the seal.Another Saturday in Glenridge had begun, with old wounds carried quietly and new stories waiting to unfold under the ever-changing American sky.
Thank You