The Rising

Prologue

Seventy-six years earlier…

He was late. He’d promised to come. And yet she didn’t want him to. What they were doing was wrong, and she knew it. So did he. So why? Why pretend no one would care, that they weren’t hurting anyone?

As long as they never find out, Annie thought. And they never would. Because they were careful. The only place they met was at the old cabin by the river. No one ever went there. From the outside, it looked like it was falling down.

Inside told a different story. Inside, he had propped up the beams and fixed the broken floorboards. She had swept and cleaned and polished the few pieces of furniture in the room. The oil lamp cast a warm glow over the space that seemed to exist outside of time, outside of Lazy Rivers with all its judgments and expectations.

There was a mattress, and that was enough. They brought food to eat and took it away. They wrapped themselves in the blankets they had both brought from home, the ones that wouldn’t be missed.

Sometimes she would trace the pattern on his blanket and wonder who had made it, who had stitched love into its seams for a man who now shared it with her instead of his wife.

A fire would have been nice, but the smoke would give them away. Instead, they huddled together for warmth on the colder nights, their breath visible in the air between whispered promises neither could keep.

Outside, they let the weeds fill the yard, and vines climbed the sides of the cabin so it was almost invisible. The river ran not twenty yards away, its constant murmur covering their voices, its waters washing away their footprints in the soft bank.

Tonight it smelled of spring mud and possibilities, the current running faster than usual after the recent rains. She sometimes thought the river kept their secrets willingly, swallowing their whispers and carrying them downstream, far from Lazy Rivers and the people who knew them.

Why the one-room cabin was there was a mystery. There was only a faint path leading to it. One that only they knew about. There was no record of it on any town map she’d ever seen. It was as if it had grown from the riverbank itself, appearing just when they needed it.

He had found it one day while walking along the river. His eyes had lit up describing it to her, as if he’d discovered buried treasure. And in a way, he had. He’d convinced her it was their place, all the while knowing it was wrong.

Maybe that’s why he hadn’t come yet. Maybe he never would again. And that was probably best. It was time for them to stop.

Now that he had married, they were both committing adultery. Before it had just been her. And she hated herself for it.

But it had been so easy to believe him when he said she deserved these stolen moments of happiness, away from the daily misery of her life. He had a way of making the impossible seem inevitable, of making wrong feel right.

A farmer’s wife. Not what she would have chosen for herself. But she had been told she had no choice. It was her duty to marry, be a good wife, work from morning to night with no pleasure that belonged to her. The bruises from her husband’s temper were easier to hide than the emptiness inside her.

If she could run away, she would. But there was nowhere to go. And he’d find her anyway. She was unpaid help. Like most wives, she thought. Her husband made sure she knew how lucky she was that he had chosen her, damaged goods that she was.

Which is how she ended up doing this. She told herself she deserved it. He was gentle, kind, and careful with her. It was all new. To be loved. If this was love. She wasn’t sure. And she hadn’t cared.

Until now. Now she felt a flutter, and her hand went to her stomach. She knew. The secret they’d kept would soon become impossible to hide.

Yes, she had to tell him this was the last time. She would have someone else to love now. Her baby. Their baby. She knew it was his. Her husband had been away when it was conceived. She hoped she could hide that fact when the time came because this baby would be her new life without him, and that would have to be enough.

As darkness fell, and the cabin disappeared into the night, she made a decision. She would create a hiding place beneath the floorboards, a space where she could leave a letter for her child, should they ever need to know the truth. A letter. The letter would tell them it had been made from love, however flawed.

By lamplight, she found a loose board near the corner where the mattress lay. Her fingers trembled as she worked it free, revealing the dark earth beneath. She dug carefully, scooping soil with her bare hands, creating a small cavity just large enough for the metal box she’d brought with her.

Inside it, she placed a letter she’d written over many sleepless nights, and the only photograph they’d ever taken together, his face half in shadow. She wrapped the box in oilcloth before nestling it into its hiding place, then carefully replaced the board, ensuring it looked undisturbed. This secret would wait here, patient as the river, until it was needed.

Outside, an unusual spring storm gathered strength. Heavy raindrops pelted the cabin roof, and through the cracks in the walls, she could see the river swelling, creeping higher up its banks as if even now it was trying to reach the cabin, hungry for the secrets they’d buried here.

But the waters would recede by morning. Their secret would stay safe—for now.

The sound of footsteps snapped Annie out of her thoughts. He was coming after all. One last time. She’d give herself this gift of one last time to be loved, not knowing that some truths remain buried only until the waters rise.