Penny hit send. "Oh my god," she whispered. "I'm doing this."
The words hung in the air, trembling like a drop of water before it falls. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears—not just with nerves, but with something sharper, more electric. A breathless exhilaration. A grief-tinged joy. She stared at the screen as if it might blink back at her, retract the message, tell her it wasn't real. But the confirmation email sat in her inbox like a stamped passport.
Submitted. It was done. No more rehearsals. No more takes. No more hiding behind her father's shadow. She stood up too quickly and swayed slightly, the room seeming to tilt beneath her bare feet.
The woven rug scratched against her toes as she padded down the hallway of the bungalow, each footfall muffled by wood worn soft by years of barefoot summers. From the kitchen, a familiar scent met her halfway: cumin, ginger, turmeric—warm, earthy things that wrapped around the heart like memory. The air shimmered with heat and spice and something that felt like home. Amara's soft humming floated above the bubbling of the curry pot. Low and rhythmic. Old.
A song passed down through generations, not meant for recordings—only for ears that listened. Penny paused at the threshold, hand resting on the frame of the doorway. Amara stood with her back to her, stirring a heavy pot with a long wooden spoon. The hem of her brightly patterned kitenge dress swayed with each movement, the colors catching the golden light slanting through the shutters—amber, plum, indigo, green. Her silver-threaded braid had begun to unravel, curling around her neck in the humidity. She looked like she belonged to the forest. Like the trees themselves might open their arms to her. Penny lingered for a breath. How many evenings had looked like this? The smell of curry.
The hum of a song.
The distant cry of a monkey or the thunder of approaching rain. This house, tucked at the edge of the Arabuko Sokoke Forest, had become more than a shelter. It had been her cocoon. But cocoons weren't meant to last forever. With a small smile, Penny drifted past Amara and stepped outside. The wooden screen door creaked softly behind her. The evening sky had bloomed into fire. Violet bled into orange. Gold licked the horizon like a healing wound. The trees whispered to one another, thick with dusk.
Cicadas droned in waves. A single hornbill called from deep within the forest. Penny closed her eyes and breathed it in—damp leaves, woodsmoke, salt carried on the wind from the distant coast.
She had lived here since she was twelve. Since the funeral. Since her father had brought her to meet the woman he called his soulmate and the forest he called his church.
And she had grown to love it, fiercely. The sounds, the stillness, the way the jungle felt alive—like it was always listening. But something in her had begun to ache. To reach. She missed snow. She missed the smell of pine and wood smoke in winter, missed the sound of boots crunching over frost-hardened trails.
Missed the ghost of her father in Glacier, the way he would point to the ridgeline and say, "The sky's daring us again, kiddo. What do you say?" A knot tightened in her throat.
"PENNY!" Amara's voice cut through the evening like a bell—warm, musical, commanding.
She turned with a smirk and headed back toward the kitchen, stepping over the threshold into the golden warmth. She grabbed a stack of mismatched enamel plates and silverware from the cabinet, their chipped edges familiar in her hands. She set the table on instinct, the way she always had—without thinking, like muscle memory.
Amara set down the pot of curry and gave her a long, amused look. "Plates already out?
You must be psychic." Penny snorted. "Please. You made this for me, didn't you? Comfort food on a night of cosmic change."
Amara raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. "I cook curry every week." "Yeah, but you triple the coconut milk when I'm anxious," Penny said, peering into the pot and inhaling deeply.
"Which means tonight is curry therapy." "Guilty," Amara said, ladling generous portions into their bowls.
"Eat."
Penny sat across from her and took a bite. The flavors hit instantly—warm, rich, layered with cardamom and something smoky. It tasted like childhood. Like ritual. She swallowed hard. "Mom…" she began. Amara looked up, sensing the shift. Penny set her spoon down, curling her hands in her lap. "You know I'm not leaving because I don't want to be here, right?"
Amara's eyes softened. She reached across the table and took her hand, her bracelets cool against Penny's wrist. "Penye Mwanga," she murmured. "You were never meant to stay. You've always belonged to the wild horizon. That doesn't mean you don't belong here, too."
Tears prickled behind Penny's eyes. She blinked them back.
"You are my child," Amara said. "Whether by blood or by spirit. You carry the sun in your eyes. You carry him in your fire. And me in your bones."
Penny leaned forward and hugged her tightly, holding on for a second longer than usual. "I'll come back," she whispered.
"I know."
They ate in companionable silence for a while, the clink of spoons and hum of forest filling the spaces between them. Then Penny's phone buzzed. She wiped her hands quickly and pulled it from her pocket.
A number she didn't recognize. "Should I get it?" she asked, heart skipping. Amara gave her a look.
"You just sent in your application less than two hours ago. If this is divine timing, you'd best answer."
She hit the green button. "Hello?"
A male voice came through, clear and crisp. "Hello, is this Penny Voss?"
She sat up straighter. "Yes. Yes, it is."
"Penny, this is Dr. Fallon. I knew your father. I believe we met once—Argentina, butterflies, if I recall?" Her eyes darted to the bookshelf where the framed photo of her dad rested—Harry beside a misty waterfall, a Monarch butterfly perched delicately on his hand.
"I remember," she breathed.
"Excellent," he said. "Well, I won't keep you. I'm calling to officially welcome you to the team. I just reviewed your submission—and your father would be proud. We'd like to offer you the position."
Penny blinked. Her mouth opened. Nothing came out.
"We'll send over the onboarding documents by morning," he continued. "I look forward to working with you, Penny. Welcome to Cascade National Park."
The call ended. She stared at the screen. Amara leaned over the table. "Well?" "I got it," Penny whispered.
A moment of silence followed.
And then—Amara whooped. A triumphant, delighted sound that echoed off the walls. "HA! The spirits are with you tonight, child!" Penny laughed, tears spilling over now, unable to stop the grin that stretched across her face.
"I got it," she repeated, louder this time. "I got it!" She leapt up and danced barefoot across the kitchen tiles, Amara clapping and singing something in Swahili that Penny only half-understood but fully felt. It was real.
The adventure had begun. Later that night, after the dishes were done and the moon had risen above the trees, Penny sat alone on the porch. The air smelled of rain and ripe guavas. Frogs sang in the distance. Her fingers played absently with the pendant at her throat. She thought of her father. Of Glacier. Of wolves.
She thought of the name Amara had given her—Penye Mwanga. Where there is light. She didn't know what waited for her in the Cascades. But she would find her own path. And she would follow it—camera in hand, wild in heart, legacy in her blood. ---