Between winds and shadows

Across the threshold

The plane hits the ground with a jarring thud, the wheels screeching as they tear up the runway. I don't know why I expected anything different—like some kind of magical welcome as I set foot in England. Instead, it feels like I've been dragged through time zones and half a world just to be dumped here, a stranger in a country that isn't mine.

I rub my eyes, gritty and sore from the long flight. I haven't slept in over twenty hours, but it's more than just the jet lag. I haven't been able to shut my brain off since we left. Not when everything feels like it's changing too fast, slipping out of my control.

Dad doesn't seem affected at all. His steps are brisk as we make our way through the terminal, his eyes already scanning for the car he undoubtedly had arranged weeks ago. He doesn't even glance back to see if I'm keeping up. Typical.

My legs feel like lead as I follow him, each step dragging me further from everything I knew. The air outside is sharper than I expected, cutting through the layers of exhaustion and forcing me awake. The smell of rain hangs in the air—cool, damp, and foreign. Nothing like the dry, sunbaked scent of the ranch.

The car waiting for us is sleek, polished black, and cold like everything else about this trip. I slide into the backseat, slumping against the soft leather, barely able to keep my eyes open as the city rushes past in a blur of gray buildings and wet streets. It's nothing like home. Home was sprawling, wild, and endless. This is... tight. Compact. Everything squeezed into neat little rows and grids.

"Sleep if you need to," Dad says, his voice distant, already distracted. His phone is in his hand, fingers flying over the screen like he can't afford to waste a second.

Sleep? As if I could. My mind is too full of noise.

I glance at him, watching his profile for a moment. Sharp jawline, always so composed, always thinking two steps ahead. There's no fatigue in his eyes, no signs that the last few months have worn on him like they have me. He's barely acknowledged the fact that we're leaving everything behind. To him, it's all just a transaction. A move. A decision made and executed.

I turn my face toward the window, trying to shut it all out, but my thoughts keep spinning. I think of the ranch, now hundreds of miles behind us, and of Coyote, with his dark eyes and powerful legs, galloping somewhere far from me. His new owner is probably leading him into an unfamiliar barn right about now, adjusting the saddle, maybe getting ready for a ride. He's out there, and I'm here. Across the world.

I close my eyes, but it's pointless. Even the idea of rest feels impossible.

I don't even realize I've fallen asleep until I feel the car slowing down, the smooth hum of the tires fading as we pull into a long, winding driveway. I sit up, blinking hard, my neck stiff from leaning awkwardly against the window. And then I see it.

It's not just a house.

It's a castle.

Stone walls rise up before me, towering and ancient, weathered by centuries of wind and rain. Turrets stand tall at the corners, the ivy crawling up the sides like fingers clinging to something that shouldn't be let go. My breath catches in my throat. I didn't expect this.

"This is it," Dad says, his voice even.

His tone is so nonchalant, so businesslike, it makes me sick. Like this place is just another piece of property in a portfolio. To him, maybe it is. But to me, it feels heavy. Too heavy.

As we step out of the car, the cold air hits me again, cutting through the fog of sleep still hanging over me. The gravel crunches underfoot, and I can't help but feel small in the shadow of the place. It's massive, looming over us like something from a different era.

"You'll adjust," Dad says as if sensing my hesitation. He doesn't sound concerned. Just certain. As if I'm supposed to fall into place, fit into this life that feels so foreign to me. He strides ahead, his shoes sharp on the stone steps, while I stand there for a moment, trying to gather myself.

Inside, the house is just as grand—vaulted ceilings, dark wood, and chandeliers that cast a soft glow over everything. But it's cold, too. Impersonal. The kind of place where you'd think twice before sitting on the furniture, afraid you might break something priceless.

Dad walks ahead, not bothering to explain anything about the house, not asking if I'm okay. He's already assumed I'll fall in line, like always. His voice echoes back to me from the vast foyer. "Your room's upstairs. Take your pick."

I drag my suitcase behind me, the sound of the wheels grating against the polished floors. The exhaustion has settled deep into my bones now, making every step feel like a battle. My eyes blur as I make my way up the winding staircase, each corridor stretching on forever, filled with closed doors and portraits of people I don't know—people whose lives probably felt just as distant as this place does to me.

Finally, I find a room at the far end of the hall. The air inside feels warmer, more lived-in, and when I step through the threshold, something loosens in my chest. It's quieter here, the noise of the house fading into the background.

The bed in the center of the room is huge, draped in dark, heavy blankets, and for a moment, all I want to do is fall into it and sleep for days. But it's the windows that catch my attention. They're tall and arched, with a view that looks out over the entire estate—the rolling green fields stretching out toward the horizon, dotted with trees and fences. It's like looking out at another world.

I stand there for a moment, my hands on the windowsill, staring out at the expanse before me. It's beautiful, I'll give it that. The kind of beauty that feels almost untouchable, like it belongs to someone else.

I close my eyes, trying to picture it—me, galloping across those fields, the wind in my hair, the ground flying beneath Coyote's hooves. But the image feels fragile now, distant. And the reality is stark. Coyote's gone. That life is gone.

I turn away from the window, my body screaming for rest. The bed is soft, far too luxurious for someone who's spent most of her life outdoors, but I don't care. I sink into it, pulling the blankets over me, letting the weight of everything press down. It's too much to think about right now—this house, this new life, the distance between me and everything I've ever known.

As soon as my head hits the pillow, sleep pulls me under, dragging me down into dreams. And in those dreams, I'm not here, in this foreign place with its stone walls and its history. I'm back home, riding hard and fast across the open plains, the wind in my face, the sky endless above me. And for a moment, in that dream, I'm free again.