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He lifts his eyes to mine. “Daughter, I want to show you something.” He reaches into a leather satchel that I had not noticed hanging on the back of his chair and pulls out a glass bottle, like a small flask. He holds it near the oil lamp. The beauty and intricate design of the bottle is mesmerizing, and I can see clear liquid within it.

Pop serves himself and then leans toward me. His gaze is direct when he speaks, “Daughter, what do you want to ask me? No question is off limits. What do you want to ask, or what do you need to say? I am listening. I want to hear your heart.” My throat tightens, I swallow hard and try to focus, desperately working to suppress the wave of emotion that rises. Despite significant angst within, I recognize the significance of Pop’s invitation.

Climbing the narrow staircase to the third floor, I reached the landing. Two doors wait silently, sentries guarding sacred space, and one bears a faded brass plaque, “Turret Room.” My fingers linger on the cold metal key with the big wooden tag in my pocket. I lift it to the oddly shaped keyhole and slide it in. A soft click, and the latch yields. Opening the door, I enter.

Finally, I come to the unremarkable, weather-worn, wooden sign. It reads "Respite Retreat," marking a path branching off the main trail and leading into the woods. With low expectations, I follow it.