Page 1 of Healing with the Mountain Man
1
Dean
Every Monday, I go to the Hollow Oak to join the handful of people like me—lost souls who sit around, drink, and cling to the little things in life that still matter.
Today, the bar is hollow in more than just name. Even at its best, the bar is never packed during the afternoon, but now it’s downright skeletal—maybe ten people at most, scattered like afterthoughts across the dim-lit space. Behind the counter, a single bartender moves between taps and registers, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else. The one who runs the kitchen is currently leaning against the bar, chatting up one of the men sitting on the other side.
The regulars who do show up are the closest thing I have to friends. That’s why I drag myself here every week, no matter what. Even today, with the threat of a storm rolling in, I still came.
But unlike me, most of the veterans had the sense to stay away. Smart. Either they’ve found better places to be, or they’re battening down for whatever mess the sky’s about to unleash. Makes me think I should’ve done the same.
Too late to start making regrets now.
Once I’ve eaten a burger and a few onion rings, caught up with the few who haven’t slipped out, I’m moving on to continue my usual routine before the rain turns into something less desired.
Leaving the Hollow Oak, I don’t head straight for the mountain. Not yet.
First, I stop at the library—surprisingly still open. Most businesses have already locked up, knowing it’s a waste of power, staff, and hope to stay operational in the face of what’s coming. But the library lingers, stubborn as the guy who normally runs it.
Inside, the aide, Tulip, is at her usual post. She gives me a welcoming smile—more out of habit than recognition—and I return it before making my way to the computers.
Every few days, I come here to check my email. There’s always something waiting. Usually spam full of cheap offers, fake urgency, and words that mean nothing. I delete them without reading.
But then there arehermessages.
Three or four new ones each time, unless something “exciting” happened in her world—which, to her, could be anything from a stray dog following her home to a change in the coffee shop’s seasonal menu. She writes to me like I’m her diary, pouring out her days in paragraphs I have no right to inhabit.
Today, there are just two from a few days ago. Better than nothing.
I print them. Part of the routine. That lets me read them in a way that’ll let me appreciate every moment she wants to sharewith me. I can sit back with my eyes closed and imagine I’m right there with her, without worrying about getting any judgmental stares from kids coming to do their homework.
Then I type a reply—short, uneven, never matching what she gives me—and leave before Tulip or Dallas can decide I’ve overstayed my welcome.
Even if I wanted to linger, to wait for a response that might never come fast enough, I don’t. Some habits are better left unbroken. Can’t hover more than I want to, not without crossing boundaries I’ve set for myself.
Abandoning the library, I grimace up at the sky. The clouds are almost black now, a slow, suffocating tide rolling toward the town. Not a fan. Especially when the sun seems nonexistent at this point.
I need to hurry.
Next stop, the post office.
I check my box out of habit, half-hoping for something new. Emails aren’t the only way my pen pal and I talk—we trade physical letters too. It’s more intimate, like we’re holding two conversations at once. Hers is in ink, mine is in type.
She always writes by hand. Curves and loops, smudges where she’s dragged her sleeve across fresh ink. Scribbles when she writes something wrong. A little piece of her pressed into the paper. I type my replies—clean, legible, distant. I want her to read them easily, but really, it’s because I don’t trust my own handwriting to say what I mean.
My hands would shake, my fingers impulsive to put down feelings I’ve fought to keep inside.
Today, the box is empty.
The worst part isn’t the disappointment. It’s the waiting. Letters take days. Weeks, sometimes. And every time I walk away with nothing, I wonder if her precious words have been lost along the way.
Alani lives in Texas. I live in Montana. As much as I hate it, the distance of our relationship is what’s hindering me from getting what I want. Her.
The problem is, Alani isn’t just some pen pal. She’s the daughter of the man I once called my best friend.
The same woman I met in person only once, and that was the day of his funeral.
The memory sits like a stone in my chest. Her in that black dress, eyes red but dry, hands folded in front of her so tight, that it took strength not to pull her into my arms and promise her that everything would be alright. That day, I’ve never seen a person look so alone.
