Time, Silence, and Bonds (chapter)

Years Later. Older, quieter. But never alone.

The cabin hadn’t changed much. But they had.
The trail was a little more overgrown. The porch leaned in the same stubborn way. The firepit still held their stories. So did the trees.

They’d been back to the cabin since that first trip. A few times. But this one felt different.This was the place where silence cracked them open.Where fire asked questions they hadn’t dared to say out loud.They weren’t chasing something undone.They were returning to witness what had held.

The gravel crunched under the tires as Clyde eased the truck into the clearing. The sun was low, casting long fingers of light across the ridge. Early fall again—cool in the shade, warm where it touched the skin.

Tyler climbed out from the passenger side. His beard was fuller now, flecked with gray. His frame had filled out a little over the years—stronger, steadier. He moved with less hurry. With more knowing.

Clyde rounded the front of the truck, duffel in hand. “Still leans,” he said, nodding toward the porch steps.

Tyler gave a soft smile. “So do we.”

The door creaked open before they knocked. Ted stood in the frame, coffee mug in hand, silver hair catching the last of the light. “Well, look who dragged in.”

Ethan stepped up beside him, arm slipping around Ted’s waist like it belonged there. “Took you long enough,” he said, grinning.

Clyde shook his head. “Some things are worth not rushin’.”

Inside, the cabin still smelled like pine and ash. A few upgrades—fresh paint, firmer cushions—but the bones were the same. Familiar. Honest.

They spent the afternoon catching up. Talk meandered—work, aches, the stubbornness of aging knees. Ethan and Ted had moved east a few years back when Ethan took a position at the university. Still kept the cabin, though. Called it their retreat place. Said it was where things always made sense again.

“We wanted this one with y’all,” Ethan said. “Felt like time.”

Later that evening, they built the fire. Just the four of them. Clyde and Tyler dragged logs into a ring, same as they’d done all those years ago. The smoke rose in steady plumes, and the crackle of wood filled the silence like a hymn.

Rachel came by before dinner. Hugged each of them. Handed Ted a tin of cinnamon rolls and Ethan a jar of her blackberry jam. She lingered at the edge of the clearing for a while after her goodbyes, eyes trailing to the four men circled around the flame.

The firelight caught their faces in turn—creased with time, softened with years. Tyler and Clyde sat nearest each other, shoulders brushing now and then, not from habit but from history.

Rachel murmured, “Whatever it is they’ve got… it held.”
Then she turned and disappeared down the trail.

Later that night, after the dishes were done and the air turned crisp, the four men circled the fire again. No one rushed the conversation. No one needed to.

Ted was the first to break the stillness. “You ever think we’d end up like this?”

Clyde gave a small grunt. “Not exactly like this.”

Ethan leaned forward, the light catching in his eyes. “I did. Didn’t know how. But I believed we could.”

They fell quiet again—not because there was nothing left to say, but because some truths were better shared in silence. It wasn’t awkward. It was earned.

Eventually, Ted and Ethan rose, stretched, murmured something about sleep. Tyler and Clyde stayed behind.

The fire was lower now. Glowing. Breathing.

Tyler leaned in, elbows on his knees. “Remember that first time we were out here? Just us?”

Clyde nodded. “After Ted and Ethan couldn’t come. Porch was saggin’. Silence so thick we couldn’t breathe through it at first.”

Tyler’s mouth lifted. “Until it cracked us open.”

Clyde didn’t respond with words. Just reached over and passed him a stick. Tyler took it, stirred the coals absently.

After a while, Clyde said, voice quiet but sure, “I used to think silence meant somethin’ was broken. Now I think… maybe it just means it’s holdin’.”

Tyler nodded, eyes still on the fire.

They sat like that for a long time, the fire painting them in gold and emberlight. The woods whispered. The stars held watch.

When they finally stood, Clyde’s knees cracked. Tyler offered a hand—not because he needed to, but because he could. Clyde took it.

They walked toward the cabin, slow and shoulder to shoulder.

“Still with you,” Clyde said, eyes on the porch.

Tyler smiled. “Always.”

The porchlight flickered on as they climbed the steps.
Not just habit. Not just homecoming.
A covenant that hadn’t loosened, even when words failed.

Still with you.
Still.

(Final chapter from Held Fast in the Tyler and Clyde series – Contact me if you’d like to read the full story!)