After Ten Years Of Chopping Wood นิยาย & เรื่องราว

Ew. But every time I’d be grumbling about something, there he’d be, fixing it, chopping wood, making tea—because apparently, that was now his job. I found myself weirdly looking forward to our tea time at the end of the day, turning and seeing him there with something to help me. A basket for laundry, a small shovel, a needle, etc. One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and painted everything in that warm, golden glow, I stood by the window, watching Mark chop wood with that ridiculous strength of his. Each swing of the axe was smooth and efficient, like he’d been born doing this.

I think the bush is dead now or strangled by weeds that have long choked the yard. I remember Mr. Johnson well, too. He acted all tough but was a big softy. I remember being so amazed by how his gnarled arthritic hands were able to carve the most beautiful things out of wood. I still have the pony he made me for my tenth birthday. Even though I never knew my grandparents, the Johnsons next door made me feel like I didn’t miss out on anything, but nothing ever lasts… especially the good things.

However, ten minutes of listening to Logan could gain a person more knowledge than they wanted about their neighbors. "They're going to replace me, Rhychard." Logan used a blue bandanna to wipe the worry from his forehead, a quirky nervous action, since no sweat could be seen on the man's brow. "Thirteen years, Rhychard. Thirteen years. I bust my hump here for thirteen years, never complaining, never sticking my nose into other people's business. I just do my job. Thirteen years. And now they want to get rid of me and not even tell me." He ran a hand through his gray hair as he shoved the bandanna into the back pocket of his grungy faded jeans. The knees already had dirt ground into them fro

And when she did she would understand what it meant. Killian stopped walking at the cottage gate and turned to look at the pack grounds behind us, the school visible across the grounds, the Saturday session still underway, the sound of it carrying faintly through the warm spring air. "Ten years," he said. Quietly. Not to me specifically. Just out loud. "Ten years," I agreed. He turned back and looked at me with the amber eyes in the spring light and the expression that was mine, still mine, had been mine since the pack square and showed no sign of becoming anything else.

I explain causing a memory to appear in my mind. Kyle holds my hand as I carefully walk over a fallen tree trunk, we'd been walking for hours and I was starting to grow tired. But I need to be a big girl and carry on, I jump off the tree trunk laughing a little as I went, that was fun. I look up to Kyle who just smiled a little smile down at me, he takes my hand once again leading me through the woods to who knew where. "Maybe the packs this way, if not we'll turn around and look that way" he tells me but was basically talking to himself, my ten year old self wouldn't know what he's talking about.

**Ten years later** I woke up from my slumber, took a cold bath on a freezing Monday morning. The winter sun peeping through the window, signaling me that the day I have been waiting for is here. I wore my black boots, my hair strictly tied up in a long ponytail. Even if I hate this hair so much I dare not cut it because Vander restricted me from cutting it short. It's been ten years since I have been in this hell hole, training my sweat out, getting treated harshly but I didn't give up. Everyone else has left including my roommate slash friend Riley and my other friend Henry. They left five years ago but I didn't leave because I wanted to be the best.

**Chapter 200: Ten Years Later** Brooks The backyard rink lights cast a soft blue glow across the ice. Ten years in Portland had turned our once-new house into a true home—scuffed baseboards from hockey sticks, walls covered in family photos, and this rink that had seen it all: first skates, epic snowball fights, teenage meltdowns, and quiet midnight conversations between husbands who still needed each other just as much as they had in the beginning. I stood at the boards watching my family.

That night wasn't going to happen again in this life. I went home and dug out my old diary that I'd hidden in a deep corner of my wardrobe. I was ten years old, homeless and wandering the streets at night when Graham—18 at the time—took me in. He was cold and aloof with everyone else, but he was very gentle with me. I knew that I had fallen in love with him when I was old enough to realize it. However, it was a secret that I could never reveal to anyone else. I grabbed the diary and tore it to pieces, shredding every page. Then, I threw the scraps into the toilet and flushed them down.

The axe felt heavier than I expected, almost falling off my hands, I adjusted my grip, raising it high for a strike. I missed the center by at least five inches. “Wow,” he said, grinning, “that tree is shaking in fear.” “Shut up.” Three swings later and I finally got the hang of it. By the fifth log, I was beaming with pride. “This isn’t so bad.” “Give it time, you’ll hate it in winter.” We chopped a few more pieces, laughing and talking about nothing important. He told me about building a sled one winter that promptly crashed into a thorn bush, I told him how I once mistook wolfberries for cherries and nearly threw up my entire body weight.

I turned the halves into quarters. We worked in silence and since my tenth birthday, it was absolutely the best day ever. After chopping he began gathering the chopped wood back into the shed. I picked my own pile and followed him. We walked back and forth until none of the wood was left. My body straightened up. I felt as if I cured the world of a deadly disease or something. I was proud of myself. I dusted myself off and walked after Alpha Logan to the cold dark house that seemed to be haunted.