The winds howled across the Montana plains, carrying the chill of the encroaching winter and rustling through the tall grass that surrounded Frank Boone's ranch. Inside the small farmhouse, the world was still and quiet, save for the faint hum of running water and the steady drip, drip, drip of droplets falling from a worn faucet into a chipped, white tub. The dim light of an overhead bulb flickered, casting soft shadows against the pale bathroom walls as the water slowly washed away the grime from Sam's feet, turning from brown to clear before disappearing down the drain.
Frank stood outside the bathroom door, his cowboy hat clutched in one hand and his jacket draped over his shoulder. He took a breath and knocked twice, the sound echoing through the narrow hallway. "You done in there, Sam?" he called in his low, gravelly voice. "I set up a spare room for you. When you're ready, I'll have some hot cocoa waitin'. Left you some clean clothes on the bed too."
No answer came, but Frank waited a moment longer, listening to the gentle flow of water before he turned away and headed down the hall. The old wooden floorboards creaked beneath his boots as he made his way to the kitchen, where he busied himself with a small pot and a few simple ingredients. He worked with practiced ease, stirring the milk and chocolate together, waiting for it to reach just the right temperature, not too hot and not too cool.
As he poured the steaming liquid into two mugs, the sound of water ceased, and the house fell into a deep, comfortable silence. Frank allowed himself a moment to breathe, staring out the window into the darkened sky beyond, where stars twinkled faintly like embers in a dying fire.
Sam emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, her hair—now black and glossy—hanging loose over her shoulders. The exhaustion of days on the run seemed to wash away with the dirt, but in its place, a new layer of uncertainty settled into her features. She walked down the dimly lit hallway, where an old oil painting of a Montana sunset hung on the wall, and entered the spare room. There, laid out on the bed, were clothes that hadn't seen the light of day in years: a pair of jeans, a plain white t-shirt, and a black jacket.
Sam picked up the jacket, feeling the fabric between her fingers. It was soft and worn, faded around the edges, and smelled faintly of lavender and sunshine. "Must've been hers," Sam muttered to herself, thinking of the woman who once lived here, and she couldn't help but wonder what kind of person she had been. She dressed quickly, savoring the warmth of the clean clothes against her skin, and made her way to the kitchen.
The warmth of the kitchen hit her first. Wood counters, polished and smooth with years of use, surrounded a sturdy wooden table and four mismatched chairs that sat in the center of the room. To the right, the living room stretched out with an old couch facing a television set that looked like it hadn't been turned on since the early 90s. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon and cocoa, and as Sam entered, Frank was just finishing pouring the last bit of milk into the mugs.
"Well, look at you," Frank said, turning to her with a rare, gentle smile. "Cleaned up nice, didn't ya?"
Sam didn't answer, instead taking the mug he offered. The warmth seeped into her cold hands, and she took a cautious sip, only to jerk back with a hiss. "Ow! That's hot!"
"Yeah, I did say it'd be hot," Frank replied, chuckling softly. "Gotta listen, girl."
She watched him as he moved around the kitchen, grabbing a pan from one of the lower cabinets, and cracking a couple of eggs with one hand. It wasn't long before the scent of fried eggs and buttered toast filled the room, and Sam's stomach growled in response.
"Go on, take a seat," Frank said, nodding toward the table. "We'll eat, and then you can tell me what in tarnation you were doin' out there."
Sam sat down slowly, wrapping her hands around the warm mug, letting its heat seep into her tired bones. She watched Frank as he finished cooking, moving with an efficiency that spoke of years spent in the kitchen, probably feeding himself after long days working the ranch. When he finally set the plate of eggs and toast in front of her, Sam's eyes widened at the sight of real food. It had been so long since she'd had anything other than scraps and stolen snacks.
"Where's my gun?" Sam asked suddenly, breaking the silence that had settled between them.
Frank paused, then slowly pulled the revolver from his belt holster and set it on the table between them. "Right here," he said. "But I ain't givin' it back to you until you tell me what's goin' on."
Sam's gaze flicked to the gun, then back up to Frank's eyes. He didn't look angry, just tired and curious, like a man who'd seen his share of trouble and didn't have the patience for any more surprises. She took a deep breath, the warmth of the hot cocoa seeping into her chest, and finally said, "You wouldn't understand."
"Try me," Frank challenged, his eyes never leaving hers.
"I…" She swallowed hard, the words catching in her throat. "I have my reasons."
Frank leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "Maybe. But if you don't tell me somethin', I got no reason to keep helpin' you." He hesitated, softening his voice. "Did someone hurt you, Sam? Are you runnin' from your family?"
"No," Sam snapped, gripping her mug so tightly her knuckles turned white. "It's not like that."
"Then what's it like?" Frank pressed.
Sam looked down at her hands, took a breath, and then, before she could talk herself out of it, reached out and grabbed Frank's rough, calloused hand with her own. "Promise me you won't tell anyone," she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath.
Frank stared at her, then gave a small nod. "Alright. I promise."
Sam nodded, inhaling deeply as if gathering strength. "Watch." She held out her free hand, and as she murmured a series of strange, melodic words, a spark flickered to life in her palm, growing into a small, flickering flame that danced and swayed as if moved by an invisible wind.
Frank jerked back, his chair toppling over as he stumbled to the floor. He reached for his rifle, hands shaking, and pointed it at her, his face pale as a ghost. "What the hell is that?!" he shouted, his voice cracking with disbelief.
"Frank, please, put it down," Sam begged, tears welling in her eyes. "I can explain."
"You better, and you better do it fast," Frank growled, still holding the rifle steady.
"It's magic," Sam said quickly, the flame in her hand flickering out like a candle in the wind. "From another realm."
Frank's eyes narrowed, and he slowly lowered the rifle but didn't set it aside. "You expect me to believe that?"
"Yes," Sam insisted, desperation creeping into her voice. "There are other worlds, Frank. Realms. I… I can travel between them. And that's why they're after me. The government, they want to control people like me—people who can move between worlds."
Frank sank back into his chair, running a hand over his face as if trying to wipe away a bad dream. "And you're tryin' to get away from them?"
Sam nodded. "I need to find the resistance. They're the only ones who can help. There's two people—a man named Thrain and another named Joan—who lead it. They're the only ones left who can fight back."
For a long moment, Frank was silent, the weight of her words settling over him like the heavy wool of his coat. Finally, he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "This is a lot to take in. Just this morning, I was tendin' to my ranch, and now you're tellin' me there's realms and magic and God knows what else…"
He paused, then looked up at her, eyes hard as steel. "Well, I reckon I don't believe half of what you're sayin'… but I can't deny what I just saw. And if you're in trouble, I ain't lettin' you face it alone."
Sam stared at him, wide-eyed. "You're… you're coming with me?"
"That's right," Frank said with a small smile. "Guess it's about time I left this ranch anyway."
"But it's all the way in Japan," Sam said, stunned. "That's what I heard, at least."
Frank chuckled, a deep, warm sound that rumbled through the room. "Then I guess we're goin' to Japan."
Sam felt something break inside her, something heavy and painful, and before she knew it, tears were streaming down her cheeks. "Thank you, Frank," she whispered.
"No problem, Sam," Frank said softly. "We'll leave at first light. Now, get some rest. We've got a long road ahead of us."
As they headed to their separate rooms, the house fell silent once more, and the wind outside continued to howl, carrying with it the whispered promise of a journey that would change everything.
And for the first time in years, Frank Boone felt alive again.