The late September sunset dappled the prairie in front of Haper’s Mountain, shining like the moon there on the western edge of the Rockies.
His job.
His ma and pa.
His sorrow.
Back in those days, Jon and Catherine would spend these early fall days walking hand-in-hand through lush meadows and dense woods on the outskirts of the city.
The air had swirled with the warmth of summer tinged by the crispness of autumn death, leaves threatening to unleash their blinding glory at any moment.
And swarms of tiny purple butterflies always flitted around Catherine, captured by the same magic that bound Jon to the woman.
Or maybe they were drawn to her angelic voice as she sang out a chorus of “Dixie.” She never quite forgot her southern roots.
The changing of the seasons was pretty much the only thing Jon missed about his old life, though, aside from Catherine herself.
He’d done a pretty good job of shutting down those old memories, too, and hadn’t even thought about New England autumns in ages.
But as he dozed under a scraggly tree that would never look any different than it did right then, something tickled the back of his hand, and his eyes fluttered open.
A purple butterfly.
It flew toward the mountain, and Jon was powerless to resist the urge to follow.
He bounded over a hill he’d never seen before and stopped, breathless, at the sight before him.
The scrubby prairie had yielded to a lush, golden meadow, decorated by thousands of dancing purple butterflies.
Ahead of him, the mountain was nothing but white light, and strains of “Dixie” echoed through the valley, calling him home at last.
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