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Forks It seemed to live under a spell of perpetual dampness. It wasn't just the rain: it was the fog, the thickness of the forest, the moss that invaded the trunks, the drops that accumulated like promises on the leaves. For Nate Winter, that environment was a perfect reflection of the silence he felt inside. A silence full of echoes.
The days had passed slowly since his arrival, marked by gentle routines: breakfasts with his grandmother, walks in the woods, the slow exploration of his father's diary, written in meticulous handwriting that seemed to speak from the past with a firm voice. Each page was a small key to a life he was just beginning to understand.
And then, finally, the day of fishing arrived.
His grandmother saw him off that morning with a faint but genuine smile. "Richard used to go fishing with Charlie and Billy when they were young. He always came back with stories… and muddy boots," she said with a muffled laugh. "I'm glad you're going, Nate. Glad to see you connecting with his world."
Nate looked down. He had no words for that kind of tenderness. He just nodded and put on his jacket.
Although he didn't admit it out loud, he was happy to find out more about his father, even if it was from other people.
Charlie SwanHe lived in a simple house with a freshly cut lawn and a rusty red pickup truck parked out front. Upon arriving, Nate paused for a few seconds before knocking on the door. He had arrived about 15 minutes before the appointed time.
Charlie opened the door with his typical neutral expression, which turned into a smile when he saw the boy, who, to Nate's surprise, had already taken a liking to him. "Nate, just in time. Let me know if you want to avoid making a fool of yourself fishing," he said in a dry but friendly tone. "I appreciate the advice, but I think I'll take the risk," Nate replied, giving a small smile.
Charlie let him in. Inside, everything smelled of wood, coffee, and a hint of loneliness. The house had a soul, but it was sleepy. Many old photos were hanging on the walls, some a little dusty: of Charlie and a woman he could only assume was his wife. There were also several photos of a little girl, who he deduced was Bella, Charlie's daughter. Nate realized that, in some ways, Charlie was trying to hold on to a life that had slipped through his fingers.
Not wanting to seem rude, he glanced over to where Charlie was arranging a tackle box, some bait, and old caps on the table. "I used to tell your father that fish knew when you were in a bad mood and would hide," Charlie murmured as if thinking it out loud.
"And what did he say?" Nate asked, his spirits renewed as he heard more from his father. "That he wasn't getting anywhere by thinking such nonsense." He winked at him, and Nate chuckled.
It was then that they heard the sound of a van pulling up. They stepped out onto the porch just as Billy Black slowly climbed out of his vehicle, assisted by a tall, dark-skinned young man with long, ponytailed hair.
"Charlie, I'm sorry I didn't tell you I was bringing my son," Billy said in a deep, yet friendly, voice. "Relax. I invited someone too," Charlie replied, gesturing toward Nate.
Billy turned and his gaze met young Winter's. A long second passed between them. Billy's eyes widened, and his hardened face seemed to freeze for an instant. Nate noticed the change instantly: first confusion… then recognition.
—You… you must be Richard Winter's son. You're his spitting image.—Yes, sir. Nathaniel. But everyone calls me Nate.
Silence fell. The breeze rustled the nearby branches.
Billy lowered his head, his expression a cross between shock and grief. "Your father was… was my friend. One of the good ones. I'm sorry, son. I'm so sorry for your loss."
Nate swallowed. "Thanks. Me too."
Jacob took a step forward as if to break the tension. "I'm Jacob," he said, extending his hand. "Nice to meet you." Nate.
They shook hands. Nate felt the strength in the grip, the bulk of the bones beneath the skin. Too much muscle for his age… accelerated growth. Still clumsy. Probably can't calculate his new strength yet. Still adjusting.
Nate struggled with analysis. It was his way of understanding the world: through logic, through observation.
The ride to the lake was peaceful. Conversations floated like a fog: gentle, without urgency. Billy and Charlie exchanged memories, anecdotes that seemed straight out of a shared photo album. Nate, in the backseat next to Jacob, watched silently, feeling a bit like a new piece on an old board.
"My dad didn't talk much about his past," Nate said, almost to himself. "He never really told me much about Forks. These woods and this environment seem almost… mystical." Jacob nodded. "My dad always says there's something in the woods that doesn't change… that watches you."
Nate slowly turned to look at him.
"And you? Do you think so?" Jacob shrugged. "I don't know. Sometimes. I feel strange things when I walk alone on the beach, or in the woods. Like I'm not alone, even if there's no one else around."
Heightened sensitivity... a developed intuition? Could it have something to do with his tribal ancestry?
Nate nodded as if mentally filing that information away.
The lake was hidden among the hills, like a secret only the trees knew. The waters were dark, reflecting the clouds like a stagnant mirror. They settled in an area of fallen logs and damp grass.
They threw out the lines, they talked about nothing and everything.
Charlie recounted how Billy once fell into the lake while trying to catch a trout with his hands. Billy recalled how they had all gotten soaked that day because Richard and Charlie had jumped in after him, recalling it all with a laugh. Jacob recounted how, as a child, he thought trout would bite if you looked them in the eye.
Nate smiled. For the first time in days, he felt light. Part of something.
When the laughter subsided, he took advantage: "I found a journal. My father's. It mentioned stories you told him, Mr. Black… stories of the Quileute tribe. Ancient legends."
Billy slowly turned his head. His eyes filled with something more than nostalgia.
—Did you take note of that?—Every word. He wrote it all down. Spirits, wolves, protectors… as if it had made a huge impact on him. Billy sighed.—I never thought anyone from outside would listen that carefully. I'm glad to know that. Richard was an intelligent man. It makes me happy that, in some way, the teachings of my tribe guided him.
Stories floated between them: short tales, fragmented legends. Jacob looked at his father intently, as if it were the first time he'd heard him speak so openly about the past.
Hours passed. To everyone's surprise, it was Nate who ended up with the most fish in his bucket. "Well, that's humiliating," Charlie said, feigning resignation. "I think the secret is to stop thinking like a fisherman and start thinking like a prey," Nate said, half-joking. "You talk funny," Jacob commented with a smile. "And you don't know how to fish," Nate retorted.
They laughed together. Something new had formed between them. Something like... a friendship.
Once back at Charlie's house, as Billy headed back to the car to leave, Jacob took the opportunity to approach Nate. "We should do this more often. Or... I don't know, go outside, walk, play. You could even help me with the car I'm restoring," he said in a low but hopeful tone.
Nate smiled. Something about Jacob stirred a sense of camaraderie in him. Although he never had any siblings, the enthusiasm of the boy in front of him made him feel like a big brother.
"So you need someone to teach you about cars?" Nate asked. "Maybe you'll learn a thing or two," Jacob replied with a laugh.
Billy, settling into his seat, turned once more to Nate. His expression grew more serious.
"Are you going to Forks High School?" "Yes, I start next week." Billy hesitated. Then he spoke in a low, almost forced voice. "Then... stay away from the Cullens."
Nate tensed. Not because of the warning, but because of how it was delivered.
"The Cullens? Why?" Billy shook his head. "Just do it. If you can... avoid them."
Nate watched him. Billy's eyes were cloudy as if struggling between speaking and remaining silent. But the most telling thing wasn't what he said: it was the slight tremor in his voice, the involuntary gesture of his hands, Jacob's shifty gaze. Fear. They were hiding it, but he'd seen it before. Billy didn't hate them. Billy feared them.
Jacob looked down too. Uncomfortable. But not unaware.
Nate didn't respond. Silence was his shield. He kept the warning floating in his mind, like a word spoken underwater.
That night, in his room, Nate opened his father's journal and returned to the page where he talked about the spirits that lurk among the trees, the shadows that are neither human nor animal. His gaze fell on an underlined sentence:
"Some secrets are not spoken out loud, not because of forgetfulness… but out of respect for fear."
He thought about Billy again. About his expression when he mentioned the Cullens. About Jacob's obvious discomfort.
He turned off the light. He stayed in the dark for a long time...