“It was for him,” he said. “He didn’t just vanish, Anna.
He was found. By you. Because you never stopped.
That counts for something.” She smiled through her tears.
The case of Logan Mills was officially closed.
His remains were cremated,
and Anna scattered his ashes near the trailhead where he’d begun his last journey.
The Great Smoky Mountains National Park is still open.
Millions of people walk its trails every year,
taking photos against beautiful backdrops,
pitching tents beneath the stars. 
They walk where Logan once walked.
They don’t know that in the thick shade of the old firs,
in places where it is unnaturally quiet, someone may be watching.
They don’t know that the strange tapping deep in the woods isn’t a woodpecker.
And every September, Anna still comes with flowers.
She kneels at the trailhead, whispers her brother’s name,
and looks up at the dark line of the trees.
