Henry Calloway had always embraced the quiet isolation of his forest lodge. A retired teacher and a widower, he found solace in the simplicity of his daily routine. He would wake before dawn, light the wood stove, and brew himself a pot of strong black coffee.
The crackling fire and the faint aroma of pine resin were small comforts in the otherwise harsh winters of Pine Hollow. The lodge, built by his grandfather, sat at the edge of a vast expanse of wilderness, where the towering pines seemed to stretch endlessly toward the horizon.