📓 Ope’s Journal – Somewhere Off the Trail, Dusk

The ground’s soft here. Damp, but not muddy. Leaves still clinging to the last of summer. You can hear the creek a few yards off. Not loud. Just enough to cover a man thinking.

Sat on a rock. Smells like cedar and wet earth. I don’t know why that matters, but it does. Reminds me that something out here still makes sense. Doesn’t ask anything from me.

I talked to Jax today. Gavel’s in his hand now. Saw it in his eyes—he thinks he can hold onto it without turning into Clay. Like it’s about intention.

It’s not.

The table don’t care what you mean. It chews on what you do.

He says he’ll tell the truth, just… not now. “Right time.” I told him what it was—a lie. That landed, but not deep enough. And then I said it.

“I’m afraid I’ll become you.”

It wasn’t just about him. It was about me. I’m scared of the man I’d be with that gavel. Cold. Calculated. Quiet when I should scream. Numb when I should feel. Telling myself it’s all for the club, when really it's just survival dressed up nice.

And I’ve done enough surviving.

The trees don’t lie. They don’t promise. They just are.

I think I need that for a while. Something that doesn’t twist on you.

I miss Donna. I miss my old man. I miss who I thought we all were before we started burning the edges.

I’ll walk back when the stars come out. Not ready yet.

—Ope