CHAPTER 40 – Thunder on the Trail

  By late afternoon, the sky had thickened into a bruised?purple haze. Clouds pushed low over the ridgelines, heavy and swollen like they were holding their breath. The signs had been there since morning—the strange stillness of the wind, the way the birds had gone quiet, the muted light.

  But now the storm felt close. Close like footsteps. Close like a warning.

  Jess glanced upward nervously. “That does not look friendly.”

  Marco frowned. “That looks like the sky wants to eat us.”

  Riley checked the map again. “Hawk Mountain Shelter is about two miles away. We can make it if we keep a steady pace.”

  A low rumble of thunder rolled across the mountains.

  Fleta felt it in her ribs.

  The wind picked up, brushing cold fingers across her cheeks. The forest dimmed as though someone had pulled a curtain across the sun. Fleta tightened her pack straps instinctively, remembering all the nights storms had rattled the thin windows of her old house—how thunder had always meant shouting, slamming doors, things breaking.

  She shook her head hard. This storm was different. This one wasn’t about fear. Just weather. Just the mountains breathing heavy.

  Riley’s voice cut through the wind. “Let’s move.”

  They pushed deeper into the woods. The first drops of rain were soft—tiny taps on leaves, quiet and scattered. Then came more. And more. The sky cracked open.

  Rain poured in sheets, soaking through their sleeves within seconds. Jess squealed. Marco cursed. Riley laughed like she’d seen this a hundred times before.

  Fleta’s breath hitched, the sound of pounding rain pulling old memories to the surface—dark rooms, raised voices, the feeling of being helplessly small.

  But Riley’s voice reached through the roar. “Hey! Stay behind me. Watch the rocks—they get slick.”

  Fleta nodded, focusing on the rhythm of boots on mud. Step. Grip. Step. Grip.

  The trail turned into a shallow stream, water rushing downhill around their ankles. Thunder boomed overhead—loud enough to vibrate through the ground. Jess covered her ears. Marco muttered something about needing a boat.

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  A flash of lightning lit the forest in stark, silver light.

  The thunderclap that followed shook the air.

  Fleta flinched so hard she stumbled, her foot skidding on a wet root. Riley’s hand snapped out instantly, steadying her by the shoulder.

  “You’re okay,” Riley said—loud but steady, voice clear even through the storm. “I’ve got you.”

  Riley didn’t grip tight. Didn’t shout. Didn’t get angry.

  Just helped her stand.

  Fleta swallowed. “Sorry. I slipped.”

  “No need to apologize,” Riley said. “Everyone slips in storms. You’re doing great.”

  Fleta held onto those words like a lifeline.

  They trudged forward, soaked to their bones. The rain hammered the leaves, drummed on their hoods, streamed down their packs in cold rivers. But the trail slowly climbed, curving toward higher, firmer ground.

  When they reached a narrow stretch of exposed ridge, the wind hit them full force—howling, pushing hard enough to make Fleta lean into it. For a second she felt small again, like the storm might knock her straight off the mountain.

  Riley dropped back beside her. “Right here with you,” she said calmly.

  Jess and Marco kept close too, forming a small cluster in the raging wind.

  Thunder cracked again.

  But this time, Fleta didn’t flinch as hard.

  Not because she wasn’t scared.

  But because she wasn’t alone.

  The storm eased as suddenly as it had come. The rain thinned to a drizzle. The wind softened. The clouds split enough to let thin bands of late?day light spill through the trees.

  Jess sighed dramatically. “Well, that was… an experience.”

  Marco wrung out his sleeve like a mop. “I am now 80% water.”

  Riley pointed ahead. “Look. We’re close.”

  A small wooden sign came into view:

  HAWK MOUNTAIN SHELTER – 0.3 MILES

  Relief washed over the group.

  Fleta breathed deeply, the lingering fear loosening slowly with each inhale.

  The storm was past. She had gotten through it. And nothing bad had happened.

  Maybe storms didn’t have to mean danger. Maybe storms could just… be storms.

  As they approached the shelter, raindrops slid quietly from the treetops, tapping gently against leaves and earth. The aftermath smelled clean—fresh pine, wet soil, a bit of smoke drifting from a chimney where another hiker must’ve lit a fire.

  Warmth waited ahead.

  A dry roof. Hot food. A night without fear.

  Fleta stepped into the clearing, soaked, tired, shivering—

  But proud.

  The storm hadn’t stopped her.

  She whispered toward the mountains:

  “I’m still moving.”

  And the fading thunder answered with a distant, rumbling echo—like applause.