Chapter 7: Back Porch Sunset

  Scene 1: The Map Must Be Found

  The sun had dipped low enough to set the tops of the pine trees glowing like they were catching fire, and the sky was painted with that slow-burn southern dusk—orange at the edge, lavender deeper in. A soft breeze rolled through Josie Mae’s backyard, stirring the drying laundry just enough to cover the sound of her boots landing in the grass.

  She didn’t bother with the gate this time.

  The tall grass whispered as she crossed the field behind the house, the kind of hush that came when day surrendered to night and everything started holding its breath.

  She had to find it.

  Not because it was just a map.

  Because it was their map.

  Because she’d been the one to lose it.

  Crickets sang somewhere in the woods. Distant. Familiar. But the place she was heading didn’t feel familiar at all—not anymore.

  She ducked beneath the back fence and pushed past the edge of the trail, her flashlight flicking through the trees. She’d memorized every bend, every knot in the cypress roots, but it still felt different in the twilight—bigger, older. She took a deep breath and pressed forward.

  Something rustled behind her.

  She spun, flashlight up.

  Tadpole stood there, silent as moonlight.

  Josie blinked. “You scared the fire outta me.”

  He didn’t smile, didn’t apologize. Just stepped forward and held out a jar.

  Fireflies blinked inside, soft and slow. Not trapped—just borrowed.

  Josie took the jar. “Thanks.”

  “I knew you’d come,” he said quietly.

  She looked away, embarrassed. “I had to.”

  Together, they walked in silence, retracing the path to the hollow. No talk, no plan. Just two sets of footsteps and the steady rhythm of breath.

  When they reached the hollow, it was darker than before—cooler too. The mist hadn’t lifted all the way. The carved tree still stood in the center like a sentry, and around it, the woods leaned in close.

  Josie stepped carefully, sweeping her light along the base of the roots. Leaves rustled. A beetle scurried.

  Then she saw it.

  Half-buried in the moss, water-stained but intact—the map.

  She crouched down and brushed it off, hands trembling just a little. “Thought it was gone.”

  Tadpole crouched beside her. “Swamp gives back what it wants to keep.”

  Josie looked at him. “You believe that?”

  He nodded.

  She folded the map gently, tucking it into a canvas satchel she’d brought just for this. “I thought I had to do this alone.”

  “You don’t,” Tadpole said.

  She exhaled and sat back on a nearby log. The firefly jar glowed soft beside her.

  He sat too.

  For a while, they said nothing.

  Then Josie asked, voice low, “You ever get scared?”

  Tadpole didn’t answer right away. Then: “Yeah. But I move anyway.”

  Josie nodded. “My daddy... he always says not to let fear make your choices. But he ain’t here.”

  Tadpole picked up a twig and started drawing lazy circles in the dirt. “Neither’s mine.”

  Josie glanced sideways. “You think they’d be proud of this? Us chasin’ shimmer trails and old bridge ghosts?”

  “I think,” Tadpole said softly, “they’d be proud we didn’t run from it.”

  A breeze moved through the trees like a sigh.

  The fireflies in the jar blinked twice, then stilled.

  Josie stood, holding the satchel close. “Thanks for comin’.”

  Tadpole didn’t reply—just gave a quiet nod and followed her out, the swamp closing softly behind them.

  Scene 2: By the Light of the Log

  The firefly jar sat between them, pulsing softly like a heartbeat. Their boots rested in the damp leaves, toes pointed toward the still pool that mirrored the last bits of dusk in rippling orange and gold.

  Josie sat hunched forward, forearms on her knees, fingers laced. The reclaimed map sat safely in the canvas satchel slung over her shoulder, but her eyes weren’t on it now. They were fixed on the water.

  Tadpole sat beside her, quiet as ever, his silhouette motionless except for the slow rise and fall of his breath. He held a twig in one hand, absently peeling its bark with his thumb.

  “You think it was always like this?” Josie asked, voice just above a whisper.

  Tadpole turned slightly. “The swamp?”

  She nodded. “Yeah. The shimmer. The bridge. That weird hum under your boots. You think it’s always been there… or it just started happenin’ to us?”

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  Tadpole didn’t answer right away. The fireflies blinked again, casting tiny shadows across their faces.

  “I think it’s always been here,” he said finally. “Most folks just stop listenin’.”

  Josie gave a small, tired smile. “We’re not most folks.”

  He peeled another bit of bark away and let it fall. “No. We’re not.”

  She picked up a flat stone and tossed it underhand into the water. It didn’t skip—just plunked—and disappeared without a sound.

  “My dad used to take me fishin’ out here,” she said. “When I was little. He’d say the swamp didn’t care who you were—just whether you paid attention. Like it had its own memory.”

  Tadpole nodded slowly. “Mine didn’t talk much. But he always brought hushpuppies when we walked the banks. Said fish liked quiet boys.”

  Josie smiled faintly. “Did you catch anything?”

  “Once. Big ol’ catfish. Thought it’d drag the pole clean outta my hands.”

  They were quiet again.

  The woods creaked gently. An owl hooted somewhere far off. The sky had shifted fully now—no more tangerine, just deep indigo pricked with stars.

  Josie looked over at him. “You ever wonder if they’d be proud? Of us?”

  Tadpole’s mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “I think they’d be mad first.”

  Josie chuckled softly. “Yeah. Mine would ground me ‘til high school.”

  Then, quieter: “But I think he’d get it. The need to know. To follow it.”

  Tadpole nodded. “Mine too.”

  They sat like that a while longer. Just two kids in the deep heart of the swamp, on a log that might’ve been older than both their families, holding things too big for most grown-ups to understand.

  When they stood, the firefly jar glowed steady.

  No longer just light in a jar.

  Now a lantern leading them home.

  Scene 3: Back at Base

  The glow of the lanterns spilled softly through the patched-up windows of the clubhouse, painting warm gold on the moss and boards. From a distance, it looked like a little house that time had forgotten—but still somehow loved.

  Josie and Tadpole arrived just past moonrise, boots squelching softly through the mud as they stepped up onto the plank porch. The others were already inside, their shadows moving behind the tarp curtain hung in place of a door.

  Josie paused a moment before stepping in, her fingers grazing the map case like it was something alive. Tadpole opened the flap for her and followed quietly.

  Cricket looked up first. “Y’all are back!”

  Lila Rae jumped to her feet. “Did you find it?”

  Josie didn’t say anything at first. She just unhooked the canvas strap from her shoulder, walked to the center crate they used as a table, and unrolled the map gently like it was sacred parchment.

  Gasps went up around the room like little fireworks.

  “Still in one piece,” Kenji whispered, peering at the water-stained edges. “Mostly.”

  Bo dropped into the corner hammock with a loud exhale. “Girl, you nearly gave me a heart attack. I figured we’d have to start drawing a new one from memory, and you know I don’t do details.”

  Josie grinned, tired but proud. “It was right where we dropped it. Almost like the swamp wanted us to find it again.”

  Tadpole gave a single nod from where he leaned against the far wall. “It waited.”

  Lila Rae knelt beside the map, her eyes scanning the marked Xs and question marks. Then she pulled out a fresh notebook from her backpack.

  “I was thinkin’,” she said, flipping it open. “We oughta write everything down. All of it. What we’ve seen. What we’ve felt. What we’ve heard. Like… a journal.”

  “Like a captain’s log?” Kenji asked, intrigued.

  “More like… a memory book,” Lila Rae replied. “For us. Or anyone who finds this place after us.”

  Josie sat beside her and took the pen Lila Rae offered.

  She stared at the blank page for a long second, then wrote slowly:

  Mudpuppy Patrol Logbook

  Day Four – The Bridge That Wasn’t There

  We crossed. We heard it. We ran.

  The map was lost. Then found.

  The swamp is bigger than we thought.

  She slid the journal back across the crate. “Your turn.”

  One by one, the others added their notes—Bo drew a lopsided version of the tree with the fresh mark. Cricket wrote a poem that mostly rhymed. Kenji diagrammed the structure of the bridge. Tadpole wrote only one word: closer.

  Lila Rae tucked the notebook into a tin lunchbox lined with fabric scraps and placed it carefully beneath the crate.

  The room grew quiet.

  Peaceful.

  Whole.

  Outside, fireflies blinked like scattered stars come down to rest in the grass. The crickets had returned, chirping soft and slow like they were easing everyone into night.

  And for the first time since the bridge, everything felt still in a good way.

  .

  Scene 4: Lookin’ Out My Back Door

  Kenji rummaged through his backpack, pushing aside batteries, spare wires, a compass he still didn’t trust, and a half-eaten MoonPie wrapped in wax paper. At the bottom, wrapped in an old dish towel, sat the thing he’d been saving since the day they found it.

  A tape recorder.

  It was clunky. Tan. Covered in dings and smudges. The play button stuck a little if you didn’t press it just right. But it still worked.

  He held it up like a magician about to pull a rabbit out of a hat. “Who’s ready for some mood music?”

  Cricket lit up. “You brought it?”

  “I brought it.”

  Bo raised a brow. “Is it the tape from the tin box?”

  Kenji nodded. “CCR.”

  “What's the song?” Lila Rae asked, already smiling.

  Kenji popped the plastic case open, slid in the worn cassette, and gave the play button a firm smack.

  There was a hiss. A click. Then—

  Just got home from Illinois, locked the front door oh boy…

  The sound crackled through the old recorder, warbled just a little with age, but the melody rolled out sweet and strange and full of sunshine anyway.

  Josie leaned back against the clubhouse wall, her hands behind her head, the firefly jar glowing next to her. “This the one with tambourines and dinosaurs?”

  Cricket grinned. “I love tambourines and dinosaurs.”

  Outside, the swamp murmured with nighttime noises—bullfrogs croaking in low, deep rhythms, crickets chirping in harmony, a single owl calling from far off. But inside, the music wrapped around them like a blanket stitched from every adventure they hadn’t had yet.

  Doo doo doo lookin’ out my back door…

  Bo tapped the beat on the side of the crate.

  Lila Rae traced the map with her finger as if the lines danced to the music.

  Tadpole sat with his eyes closed, head slightly tilted, like he was listening to something deeper than just the tape.

  Kenji leaned back with a small smile. “Feels like a memory already.”

  Josie turned toward the open window, where the moonlight danced silver on the water. Fireflies blinked like stars caught just above the grass. The music drifted into the trees, carried by the warm southern air, and for just a moment, everything felt light.

  Like maybe the mystery didn’t matter as much as this exact second.

  Six kids in a half-fixed duck blind in the middle of a humming, whispering swamp.

  Take a ride on the flyin’ spoon…

  Josie whispered, “This is what summer’s supposed to feel like.”

  And the swamp—silent and listening—seemed to agree.

  Scene 5: “Tomorrow,” She Whispers

  The tape clicked softly as it wound to a stop, and the clubhouse fell into the kind of hush that only came after laughter, music, and full bellies of wonder.

  Cricket was already curled in her hammock, one arm dangling over the side, murmuring something about spoon-riding dinosaurs in her sleep. Bo snored softly beneath the window, using his rolled-up hoodie as a pillow. Kenji had one eye half open but hadn’t moved in ten minutes. Lila Rae lay beside the map, notebook still in her hand, thumb resting gently against the journal’s cover. Tadpole sat in the far corner, quiet and awake, his face unreadable in the dim light.

  Josie stood slowly, careful not to jostle the crate. Her boots creaked on the plank floor as she slipped outside.

  The porch boards felt cool under her bare feet. She'd left the boots behind.

  The night was full of soft, living things—cicadas humming in long waves, frogs croaking like sleepy sentries, and the occasional flutter of a moth batting against the screen of stars overhead. Fireflies floated just above the grass like drifting lanterns, each one blinking its own secret code.

  Josie stepped to the edge of the porch and leaned against the post. The swamp stretched out in front of her, quiet and silver and just a little wild. Somewhere out there, past the shimmer and the carved tree, past the bridge that wasn’t supposed to be and the howl that didn’t belong—something waited.

  And she didn’t know what it was.

  But she wasn’t scared of it anymore.

  She glanced back over her shoulder, toward the flickering lantern light inside the clubhouse, where the Mudpuppy Patrol lay sleeping in mismatched piles.

  A crew.

  A family.

  She faced the dark again, the swamp breathing slow and steady around her.

  “Tomorrow,” she whispered.

  Not a promise.

  Not a plan.

  Just a truth.

  And with that word hanging in the warm night air, Josie turned and stepped back inside, the door creaking gently shut behind her.

  The swamp held its silence a little longer.

  And then the wind picked up—just enough to rustle the leaves.

  Like it had heard her.