Late afternoon sun baked the intersection of a little-used dirt road and an even lesser-used two-track. Both disappeared into the vastness of the Nevada high desert. Sagebrush dotted the terrain, silver-green against red dirt. Stands of juniper clung to rocky outcroppings, twisted and stunted by wind and drought. In the distance, jagged mountains cut a serrated edge against a too-blue sky. Beautiful in its harshness. Brutal in its emptiness.

Riann stood beside her dust-coated sedan, the metal still tick-ticking as it cooled in the late afternoon air. Sweat trickled down her spine, caught in the waistband of her jeans. Her GPS screen displayed only blank space, the little blue dot of her location floating in digital nothingness. No roads. No landmarks. No destination.

"No service." She whispered the words to herself, squinting at her phone's display before tucking it back into her pocket. Four days of driving had brought her here. Nowhere.

To her right, the dirt road continued twenty-five miles south, connecting with a gravel road and then another thirty miles further, pavement. If her wrinkled map could be trusted. To her left, the rougher two-track wound east, disappearing into a canyon mouth framed by rust-colored cliffs. According to the weathered rancher, that would lead her to Mikal.

Riann lifted her hand to shield her eyes, studying the canyon. Heat waves distorted the distance, making the entrance shimmer like a mirage. Perhaps that's all this was, a fever dream born of frustration and midlife restlessness. She turned in a slow circle, taking in the landscape. Not a single car had passed since she'd stopped twenty minutes ago. No contrails streaked the sky. No telephone poles. No fence lines. Just the ancient patience of stone and dirt and sky.

The skin between her shoulder blades prickled with unease. This place felt older than time, indifferent to her presence. If she disappeared here, how long before anyone noticed? Her daughter wouldn't expect a call for days, busy with her summer internship. Her son was backpacking through Europe, checking in sporadically through hostel WiFi. Her colleagues at the Seattle Art Institute assumed she was taking a much-needed vacation after the grueling spring semester.

The quiet pressed against her eardrums. No traffic noise. No human voices. Just the soft whisper of wind through sage and the occasional cry of a soaring hawk.

She'd left Seattle with a sense of purpose that now seemed absurd. Find a reclusive sculptor who'd disappeared from the art world a decade ago. Ask him... what exactly? Why his forgotten sculpture had jolted her from years of creative numbness? Why her fingers itched to create when she thought of his work? Why her dreams had become saturated with erotic images she couldn't explain?

The logical choice was clear: turn around, head back to the last town she'd passed through. Find a motel with air conditioning and WiFi. Forget this impulsive quest. She had tenure at the Institute. Students who respected her. A comfortable life in her small Seattle apartment with its northern light perfect for sculpting. Safe. Predictable. Empty.

And yet.

Something pulled her toward that canyon. The same something that had pulled her hands to the small stone sculpture in the Institute's basement storage. The same something that had yanked her from ten years of artistic complacency.

Like standing at the edge of dark water, knowing you should turn back but feeling the inexorable pull to dive in. To sink. To discover what waits in the depths.

She leaned against the sun-heated metal of her car, letting her head fall back. The journey that had led her to this deserted crossroads began to unspool in her mind like an old 8mm film, starting in the Art Institute’s archives.

____________________________

The storage room's single bulb cast more shadows than light, transforming stacks of forgotten art into looming sentinels. Riann's fingers left trails in the dust as she shifted another box aside. She'd been down here for nearly an hour, hunting through reference materials for her sculpture class. Not for the first time, she wondered why she bothered. Her students cared less about art history than their Instagram feeds.

The basement room smelled of mildew and neglect. Cardboard boxes sagged under their own weight, spilling yellowed papers onto metal shelving. Canvas corners peeked from behind wooden crates, colors dulled by years of darkness. Nobody had properly organized this space in at least a decade. Administration called it "archived materials." In reality, it was where unwanted things came to be forgotten.

Her phone's flashlight cut a feeble beam through the murk as she navigated between narrow aisles. Something caught her toe, a small crate, half-hidden beneath a collapsed stack of portfolios. She might have missed it entirely if not for that stumble.

Crouching down, she freed the wooden box from its paper prison. No markings, no labels. Just a simple wooden container, its lid secured with a single latch. Her fingers hesitated over the clasp. The rational part of her brain said to leave it alone, she had teaching materials to find, a class to prepare. But something about the box's solitary presence tugged at her.

The latch resisted, then gave way with a soft click. Inside, wrapped in yellowed cloth, lay something solid and smooth. She peeled back the fabric and froze.

A sculpture. Small enough to fit in her palms. A nude woman kneeling, back straight, head slightly bowed. Her hands rested on her thighs, palms upturned in offering or surrender. The figure's face held an expression of such serene submission that Riann felt her breath catch.

The stone was alabaster, cool and smooth against her trembling fingers. She wiped away dust, revealing more details, the gentle curve of the woman's back, the subtle weight of her breasts, the vulnerable nape of her neck. The craftsmanship was extraordinary. Not just technically perfect, but alive with intention. Every line communicated both strength and surrender.

Something inside Riann shifted. A recognition. Her heart pounded against her ribs as she traced the curve of the stone woman's spine with her fingertip. The sensation traveled through her own body, awakening nerve endings she'd forgotten existed.

"There you are! I've been looking everywhere."

The voice jarred her back to reality. Karen from Painting stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the marginally brighter hallway.

"Sorry," Riann said, not sorry at all. She didn't move to stand, didn't lower the sculpture.

Karen squeezed between stacks of framed canvases, her curiosity piqued. "What'd you find? Oh," She stopped, seeing the figure in Riann's hands. "That's one of his, isn't it?"

"Who?" Riann asked, though something in her already knew.

"Mikal." Karen pronounced the name with reverence tinged with scandal. "It has to be. No one else carved like that." She leaned closer. "You know who he was, right? Before your time, I guess."

Riann nodded vaguely. The name sounded familiar, whispers in faculty lounges, legends shared by senior instructors.

"God, he was something." Karen perched on a nearby box that protested beneath her weight. "Brilliant. Completely brilliant. The students worshipped him. Administration hated him. He broke every rule they had, then made up new ones to break."

Riann's thumb traced the kneeling woman's cheek. "What happened to him?"

"Affairs. Lots of them. Students, faculty, the dean's wife." Karen's voice dropped to a gossip's whisper. "They say he had a studio behind the ceramics building where he'd take them. Taught them things not in any curriculum." She laughed, a short, envious sound. "They paid him to leave. Then tried to erase him, moved his sculptures to storage, removed his name from the catalog. But students still talk about him twenty years later."

The sculpture felt warmer now, as if absorbing Riann's body heat. She barely heard Karen's words, focused instead on the feeling of stone against skin. The woman's upturned palms seemed to be asking for something. Or offering.

"They say he disappeared in the desert somewhere. Became a hermit." Karen peered at Riann's face. "You okay? You look flushed."

"Just dusty in here." Riann reluctantly wrapped the sculpture back in its cloth. "I should get back to prep."

Karen stood, still talking about scandals and genius as they navigated toward the exit. Riann nodded at appropriate intervals, the weight of the sculpture heavy in her hands. She'd taken it without conscious decision. It simply was with her now.

She dreamt of Mikal that night.

He was older than she expected, hair gone silver, skin cured by sun and wind. He stood behind her, hands slick with clay, pressing her wrists flat to a workbench. She was naked, bent at the waist, the smell of sex and sweat in her nose. He didn’t speak, only gripped her harder, forcing her arms wider until her chest pressed to the cold slab. She struggled, but not really. She wanted to see his face, but he leaned in and bit her shoulder, hard, almost punishing.

In the dream, she moaned, the pain a sharp reminder. She couldn’t tell if she was fighting him or herself.

She woke up gasping, sheets twisted, her hand wedged between her thighs, fingers sticky. Her heart hammered. City noise hushed by the late hour. She lay still, hand pressed to her pussy, the dream’s heat refusing to fade.

The sculpture sat on her nightstand, the stone woman’s eyes fixed on the ceiling. Riann stared at it, breathing through her mouth until her pulse slowed. She tried to will herself back to sleep, but every time she closed her eyes, she saw the kneeling woman, saw herself kneeling in her place, palms up, begging for more.

She didn’t sleep after that.

Days blurred. Teaching, grading, forced smiles in staff meetings. But her mind drifted. She found herself staring out windows, picturing the desert, imagining the heat on her skin, the taste of dust. The sculpture never left her thoughts. She brought it to the studio, set it on her workbench, tried to let it inspire her. Instead, it mocked her. Every piece she started collapsed or cracked in the kiln. Her hands shook when she centered clay on the wheel. With the first tap of a chisel, an entire stone shattered. Hadn’t happened before. Ever.

At night, the dreams returned. Sometimes Mikal was there, sometimes it was just the woman, always kneeling, always waiting for something terrible and beautiful. Sometimes she was the woman, sometimes the watcher. In every dream, she woke up slick and aching, her pussy pulsing, sheets twisted to a rope.

She tried to exorcise the feeling by working harder, staying late in the studio, churning out slabs and coils until her fingers split and bled. She even tried to sculpt the dream woman, but it came out wrong, the face too soft, the hands limp, no tension in the body. She hurled the clay at the wall, watched it slide down in a slump.

One night, she stood in the dark of the studio, surrounded by the wreckage of her failed attempts. The only thing that felt alive in the room was the little sculpture, its calm face a rebuke.

Fuck this, she thought.

She opened her laptop, ignoring the stack of student portfolios she was supposed to grade. She searched for Mikal’s full name, nothing on the Institute site, of course. But a Google crawl brought up a few references: a gallery show in Reno, a legal notice for unpaid taxes in some nothing county, a blurry photo of a weathered man at an outdoor festival, holding a chunk of raw stone. She dug deeper, cross-referencing every clue, mapping the trail from gallery to gallery, each one smaller and farther-flung.

When she finally closed the laptop, her eyes burned. But she knew where to start.

By morning, she had maps spread across her kitchen table. A leave of absence request drafted for the department head. Her rational mind screamed warnings, year-end evaluations were coming, her condo association needed her proxy vote, her daughter was planning to visit next month.

For once, she didn't listen.

She packed lightly. Clothes. Toiletries. A sketchbook. The sculpture, carefully wrapped in soft cloth. As she loaded her car, she felt a sensation she hadn't experienced in years, the flutter of something like freedom, terrifying and electric.

Twenty years of playing it safe. Of being dependable Professor Riann with her predictable syllabus and inoffensive art. Of smiling politely through faculty meetings and parent-teacher conferences and her ex-husband's wedding to a younger woman.

She drove out of Seattle at dawn, the city’s gray haze giving way to blue. Her hands stopped shaking somewhere around Ellensburg. She drove faster after that, the little stone woman riding shotgun, guiding her east.

___________________________

The gallery owner in Reno shook his head. "Mikal? Sure, I remember the work. Not the man." He tapped ash from his cigarette, eyeing Riann like she was slightly mad. Two days into her search, she was beginning to think he might be right. Each new town yielded only fragments, impressions, rumors, conflicting stories that dissolved when pressed. The man she sought was more ghost than artist.

"Last I heard, he had a show in Elko. Maybe ten years back?" The gallery owner shrugged. "Try east. Guys like him disappear into the desert. Something about the emptiness."

The desert swallowed her Honda Civic as she drove. Towns grew smaller, spaced farther apart. Gas stations advertised the last fuel for seventy miles. Motel signs flickered against darkening skies, half their letters burnt out. The landscape itself seemed to resist human presence. Scrubland stretching to distant mountains. Sagebrush clawing at asphalt edges.

In Elko, a bartender squinted at Mikal's name. "That old bastard? Yeah, he passed through. Drank whiskey, neat. No ice." The man wiped a glass with a stained rag. "Said he was heading somewhere the jackrabbits outnumbered the people. That narrows it to about half the state." He chuckled at his own joke.

The third night, she slept in a motel outside Winnemucca. It stank of bleach and cigarettes. She set the sculpture on the little round table, propped herself against the headboard, and closed her eyes.

She dreamt she was lost in a labyrinth, walls made of flesh and bone, the corridors narrowing until she crawled on her belly, knees bruising against the floor. She came to a chamber where Mikal waited, naked except for a rope coiled around his hand. He beckoned her, and she crawled to him, shivering. He looped the rope around her throat and pulled, not hard, just enough to make her knees go weak. She gasped, but the sound was pleasure, not fear. He pressed her face to the floor, whispered, “Stay.” She woke up moaning, thighs slick, the sheets twisted around her ankles like restraints.

She stared at the ceiling, counting the cracks until dawn.

The art collector in Winnemucca dismissed her question with a wave. "Mikal's been dead for years." His house was filled with sculptures that screamed for attention, angular metal, aggressive forms. Nothing like the quiet submission of the piece she carried.

"Dead?" The word felt wrong in her mouth.

"Must be. No new work in decades. Such a waste of talent." He peered at her over his glasses. "What's your interest? Academic?"

She mumbled something about research, knowing how implausible her quest must seem. Seattle professor chasing desert ghosts. The rational part of her brain, the part that paid bills on time and never missed faculty meetings, screamed for her to turn around. Go home. Stop this foolishness.

But each night, the dreams intensified. The silver-haired man's hands. The sensation of being shaped, molded. Waking with sheets twisted around her legs, body aching with need. The sculpture watching, knowing.

So she continued east, her car the only movement in a vast stillness. The radio faded to static. Her phone showed fewer bars until, finally, none at all. The roads narrowed, pavement giving way to gravel, then dirt. Signs disappeared. She navigated by sun and instinct and the occasional rusted fence post marking boundaries of nothing.

On the fourth day, she stopped her car to stretch cramped legs. Heat shimmered off the hood. In every direction, emptiness stretched to the horizon, broken only by the jagged teeth of distant mountains. A dust cloud approached from the north. She tensed, one hand on her car door. Out here, encounters were significant. The cloud materialized into a ranch flatbed, ancient and dented. It slowed, then stopped. A man emerged, weathered face beneath a stained cowboy hat, eyes narrowed against sun or suspicion.

"Lost?" His voice was gravel and whiskey.

"No. Looking for someone."

He spat into the dirt. "Nobody out here to find."

Riann hesitated, then said, "Mikal. You know him?"

The rancher's weathered face betrayed no surprise. "Mikal? Yeah, I know the crazy bastard."

“Know where he lives?” Riann tried to keep the hunger out of her voice.

"Deliver supplies out his way twice a year. Pays cash. Keeps to himself." The rancher studied her, pale eyes missing nothing. "What business you got with him?"

How to explain? The sculpture. The dreams. The inexplicable pull. "Art," she said finally.

The rancher considered this, then nodded once. "Head east into those canyons, past the old mining road. Look for a split rock formation shaped like a wolf's head. Two-track trail leads up from there. Couple of miles in, you'll find his place." He paused. "If he wants to be found."

"Will he talk to me?"

A dry chuckle escaped the rancher. "Lady, I've been delivering supplies to him for seven years. Exchanged maybe twenty words total." He climbed back into his truck. "But he's still making those statues, far as I know. Maybe that's who he talks to."

Following the rancher’s directions, she stumbled onto the two-track. GPS showed only blank space to the east. No roads. No settlements. Just pale green emptiness indicating nothing.

_____________________

Standing at the crossroads, Riann realized it had been a journey, on many levels. Now, she needed to make a decision. Not long before nightfall and she didn’t want to be driving around out here in the dark. She stood beside her car, squinting against harsh afternoon light. The isolation pressed against her like a physical weight. Four days from Seattle, from students and colleagues and the comfortable predictability of her life. Nobody knew where she was. Nobody would miss her for days.

"This is insane," she said aloud, her voice strange in the emptiness. "Chasing a man who probably doesn't want to be found." She paced beside her car, arguing with herself. "What do I even say if I find him? 'Hello, I've been dreaming about you and your sculpture'?" She laughed, the sound swallowed by vastness. Her sensible self, the self that had governed her life since her divorce, demanded retreat. Go back to the paved road.

Instead, she opened her trunk. Transferred essentials to a backpack, water, protein bars, sunscreen, a hat. The sculpture, carefully wrapped in soft cloth, nestled among the supplies. Its weight felt right against her back.

The two ruts were barely visible, disappearing into the canyon mouth. Her Civic bounced and scraped over rocks until it became impassable. She parked in the shadow of a massive boulder, locking the car from habit. Who would find it here?

The silence when she cut the engine was absolute. For a moment, she sat paralyzed. Last chance to reconsider. Last moment to return to safety, to the comfortable mediocrity of her teaching position, her quiet condo, her predictable days.

She shouldered her pack and began walking. Each step carried her farther from civilization, deeper into the canyon's embrace. Red rock walls rose on either side, striated with ochre and umber. Her footsteps crunched on gravel, then softened as the path narrowed to a trail worn by animals and forgotten peoples.

Fear mingled with something else, a sensation she hadn't felt in decades. Anticipation. Possibility. The path curved ahead, disappearing around an outcropping. What waited beyond that turn? The thought should terrify her. Instead, she quickened her pace.

Sweat trickled between her shoulder blades. One more bend in the canyon. One more step toward the man who had unknowingly pulled her across three states, out of her safe existence, into this wild uncertainty. The sculpture seemed to pulse against her back, urging her forward.

Riann took a deep breath and continued.

The trail narrowed to nothing, just a game trail through red dirt and shattered stone. Sage snagged Riann’s jeans, leaving chalky streaks across her thighs. Above her, the sky boiled with copper and cobalt, last daylight bleeding out behind the mountains. Every step forward felt like trespass.

She crested a rise and there it was. A cabin hunched low between two rock outcrops, as if hiding from the wind. Metal chimney, weathered wood gone gray, a single sheet of solar panel tacked to the tin roof. One window glowed faintly, just enough to say somebody was home.The place radiated nothing. Not hospitality. Not menace. Just that blank, unyielding self-sufficiency you saw in pack rats and desert lizards.

On the porch, a man sat in silhouette. He leaned back in an old wooden chair, legs splayed, a rifle laid across his lap. Hair and beard both silver, wild, catching stray light. From a hundred yards, Riann felt the gravity of his attention.

She paused, pulse loud in her ears. This was the moment. She thought of the miles behind her, the days of hunger and dust, the nights of dreaming about this stranger. Every rational voice screamed at her to leave.

She kept walking.

Fifty yards out, Mikal cocked his head, tracking her approach. No greeting. Just that slow, relentless stare. His hands rested on the rifle, still and watchful. Not pointing at her. Not yet.

Riann raised one hand, palm out. “I’m not lost,” she said, immediately hating how her voice shook. He didn’t respond. The silence stretched. She remembered the rancher's warning. Seven years, twenty words. Not a man eager for company. She closed the last distance, stopping at the edge of the porch.

She saw his hands now. Weathered, scarred. Hands that could split stone or break a body. He wore faded jeans, a paint-splattered shirt, boots with the toes ground down to bone. No jewelry, no insignia, nothing to identify him but the magnitude of his stillness.

“My name is Riann,” she tried again.

Mikal’s eyes flicked to her face, then away. “Don’t matter.”

She stood there, feeling absurd. “I came looking for you.”

“Don’t matter either.”

He let the words hang. Riann stared at the porch boards, the cracks filled with silt and dirt. Wind hissed through the sagebrush, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and some animal musk.

On the studio wall, just past the cabin, something pale and huge hung like a shroud. She squinted. It was a cougar skin, nailed taut to the planks, skull still attached, the hollow sockets staring her down. Below it, a single line of blood had dried to brown.

“You shot it?” she asked.

Mikal shrugged. “It found my goats.”

She looked again at the rifle. “Is there… are there others?”

He shrugged again. “Its mate will be looking for me.” It wasn’t a boast. It was prophecy.

She opened her backpack and brought out the wrapped sculpture. “I found this,” she said, placing it at his feet. “At the Institute. In Seattle. I think you made it.”

He didn’t move. Not even to look. But the air changed. “So?”

She knelt and unwrapped the cloth, cradling the stone woman in her hands. The pose, the hands, the lowered head. She offered it to him, unsure if it was a tribute or a surrender.

“I’ve been dreaming about her. About you. I can’t...” she searched for words. “I can’t make art anymore. Not anything real. Not since I found this.”

His gaze never wavered. She felt stripped bare beneath it, all pretense dissolved. What was left? Just raw need and confusion.

"My work is falling apart," she admitted. "Nothing feels right anymore. Nothing comes out the way it should. It's like I forgot how to speak with my hands." She looked down at the sculpture, its quiet perfection mocking her failures. "I need to understand how you made this. What it means."

The silence stretched between them, filled with cricket song and the distant cry of a hunting owl. She'd come three states to find answers, and he offered none. Her cheeks burned. This had been a mistake. She should turn around, retreat to her car, drive back to civilization. Forget this madness.

"I shouldn't have come," she whispered, half to herself. "I'm sorry."

She turned to leave, embarrassment a lead weight in her stomach. Three steps away, his voice stopped her.

“It’ll be dark soon.”

She looked back. He hadn't moved from his chair, but his focus had changed, sharpened. He was seeing her now, not just watching.

"I’ve got a flashlight," she said, gesturing to her pack.

He nodded once, as if confirming something to himself. Then he stood in one fluid motion, rifle casual against his shoulder. Up close, he was taller than she'd expected, lean and weathered like the juniper trees that clung to the canyon walls. His eyes were the pale blue of winter sky, startling against his sun-darkened skin.

“Cougar.”

“Oh, right.”

He studied her face one last time, searching for something she couldn't name. Whatever he found seemed to satisfy him. He gestured toward the cabin door with a slight tilt of his head.

"Come," he said, and turned without waiting to see if she would follow.

Riann hesitated, heart pounding against chest. The rational professor in her head screamed warnings. Alone in the wilderness. No phone signal. No one knew where she was. Following a stranger into an isolated cabin.

But her feet were already moving, climbing the worn wooden steps, crossing the threshold into Mikal's world. The sculpture clutched against her chest like a talisman, leading her forward into the unknown.

The cabin door closed behind her with a soft click. One room, sparse and clean. A woodstove in the corner radiated heat against the desert night's chill. Shelves lined the walls, holding books and jars of dried herbs. A rough-hewn table dominated the center, two chairs facing each other like opponents in a silent game. Mikal moved through the space with the ease of long habit, setting his rifle in a rack by the door, hanging his hat on a peg. She stood awkwardly just inside the threshold, the sculpture still clutched to her chest, uncertain of her welcome.

"Sit," he said, nodding toward the table.

Riann placed the sculpture carefully on a shelf near the door, her fingers lingering on the stone woman's back. Then she crossed to the table, pulled out one of the chairs. The wood was smooth beneath her palms, worn by years of use. She sat, hands folded in her lap, watching Mikal move to a small propane stove.

He filled a battered kettle with water from a large jug, his movements precise, economical. No wasted motion. The same hands that coaxed beauty from stone now measured tea leaves into a cast iron pot. She tried to reconcile this lean, weathered man with the figure from her dreams, the one who bent her over workbenches and bit her shoulder. Heat crawled up her neck.

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft hiss of the heating water. Riann searched for something to say, some way to bridge the gap. Nothing came. Her usual small talk felt pointless here. What could she possibly say that would matter in this place, to this man?

Mikal set two ceramic cups on the table. Handmade, slightly irregular, glazed in a deep blue that reminded her of twilight. Beautiful in their imperfection. The kettle whistled, a shrill note in the quiet room. He poured steaming water into the teapot, replaced the lid. Waited. His stillness was absolute, patient as the stones he carved.

She felt compelled to fill the silence. "Your work…"

He held up one hand, stopping her words. Shook his head once. Not now.

The smell of the tea filled the space between them, earthy and complex. Riann inhaled deeply, letting her shoulders relax slightly. After a precise interval, Mikal lifted the pot and poured. The liquid was dark amber, almost red in the lamplight. He filled her cup first, his eyes on her face, not the stream of tea.

The cup filled to the brim. Still, he poured. Tea spilled over the edge, spreading across the wooden table in a widening pool. She jerked back, chair scraping against the floor.

"What are you…"

More tea cascaded over the rim, splashing onto her jeans. Hot, but not scalding. She jumped up, grabbing for a nearby cloth. Her face burned with embarrassment, confusion. Was this some kind of test? A punishment for intruding on his solitude?

“Stop, it’s overfull. You can’t add anymore.”

Mikal set down the teapot with the same deliberate care he'd shown all evening. His expression remained unchanged, watching her with those pale-blue eyes.

“Exactly.”

She stared at him, cloth frozen in her hand. "I don't understand."

"Your cup is so full no more can be added," he said. "First, empty it."

The words hung in the air between them. Simple. Cryptic. Her mind raced to decode his meaning. The overfilled cup. Her overflowing life. Everything she'd brought with her, expectations, assumptions, fears, obligations. All the voices that weren't hers. Critics, students, colleagues, ex-husband. No room for anything new.

“You want to learn? Empty out what you think you know. Let go of what isn’t you.”

"How?" The question escaped before she could stop it. "How do I know what to empty?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he reached for another cloth, began wiping the spilled tea from the table. No hurry, no apology. His weathered hands moved methodically, soaking up the mess she'd been too shocked to clean.

Riann sank back into her chair, watching him. The scene played in her mind again, the deliberate overfilling, her startled reaction. She should be angry. Instead, she felt a strange clarity, as if something had shifted inside her. The mess wasn't an accident. It was a lesson.

"You did that on purpose," she said.

A slight nod, the barest acknowledgment.

"You've done it before. To others."

"Few understand." His voice was low, matter-of-fact. "They see only the mess."

She looked down at her soaked jeans, the stained table. "And what should I see?"

"Not for me to say." He wrung out the cloth in a small basin, returned to finish cleaning. His movements were deliberate, almost hypnotic.

The silence between them grew heavy with unspoken meaning. Riann's mind churned with questions, but she held them back. Each time she opened her mouth to speak, she saw the overflowing cup. Too full. Nothing more could be added. She needed to empty first, to listen rather than fill the space with words.

Mikal finished cleaning, then poured fresh tea into both cups. This time, he stopped well before the rim. The gesture felt significant, an acknowledgment of her understanding. Or at least her willingness to try.

She lifted the cup, inhaled the earthy aroma. The warmth seeped through the ceramic into her palms. Mikal raised his own cup in a small salute, then sipped. She did the same. The tea was strong, slightly bitter, with complex undertones she couldn't name. Like nothing she'd tasted before.

"My art has been safe," she said finally. "Predictable. Empty."

He nodded, eyes never leaving her face.

"I teach my students techniques, but not..." She gestured vaguely, searching for words. "Not this. Whatever this is."

"Can’t teach what you don't know." No accusation in his tone. Simple fact.

"And you know?"

A ghost of a smile crossed his face, there and gone. "My way. Not yours."

The answer was frustrating and perfect. She wanted him to tell her, solve the puzzle for her. Fill her empty cup with his wisdom. But that wasn't why she'd come. Not really. She hadn't traveled across three states for answers. She'd come for questions. The right questions.

She sipped her tea again, letting the silence settle around them. Outside, wind whispered through juniper and sage. Inside, the lamplight cast their shadows against the cabin walls, two figures connected by nothing more than shared space and cooling tea.

After a while, she realized her shoulders had loosened. The tension that had knotted her spine since Seattle was starting to unravel, replaced by something else. Not comfort. Not yet. But a sense of being seen, and not found wanting.

The silence between them was no longer empty. It was dense, saturated with everything unspoken. She wondered how long they could sit like this before something broke.

She hoped it wouldn’t be her.

When the cups were empty, Mikal stood. "Dawn comes early," he said. "Sleep now. Tomorrow, we begin."

She wanted to ask what would begin, but stopped herself. Empty the cup first. Learn to listen. She nodded instead, feeling the weight of his words settle into her bones.

"Thank you," she said. "For the tea."

His eyes met hers, searching. For the first time, she didn't look away. Whatever he saw seemed to satisfy him. He nodded once, a silent acknowledgment, and gestured toward a doorway she hadn't noticed before.

"Studio first," he said. "See where the work happens."

The studio stood separate from the cabin. Mikal pushed the heavy wooden door, hinges groaning as it swung open. He stepped aside, allowing her to enter first. Riann hesitated at the threshold, suddenly nervous. She drew a steadying breath and stepped inside.

Light. That was her first impression. Windows everywhere, skylights near the ceiling, large panes along the north wall. Even at dusk, the space glowed with the desert's fading radiance. The room was twice the size of the cabin, with a high, peaked ceiling. Workbenches lined the walls, their surfaces scarred and stained from years of use. Tools hung on pegboards, each in its assigned place, chisels, rasps, hammers, clamps. A patina of marble dust coated everything, settling into the crevices of the rough-sawn floorboards.

And the sculptures. They populated the space like silent inhabitants, some on pedestals, others directly on the floor. Abstract forms twisted toward the ceiling, all curves and suggestions. Realistic figures crouched in corners, faces caught in moments of ecstasy or anguish. A woman's torso emerged from a block of alabaster, her back arching in what might be pain or pleasure. A man's face, half-formed, screamed silently from a chunk of granite.

Riann moved through the forest of stone, careful not to touch. Each piece radiated a different energy. Some felt angry, others serene. All vibrated with life, as if Mikal had somehow found the subjects' souls in the stone.

"These are..." Words failed her. Amazing? Terrifying? Beautiful? None captured the visceral response they evoked.

Mikal said nothing, just watched her explore, those pale-blue eyes missing nothing. She continued her circuit of the room, drawn to a series of small figurines displayed on a shelf. Similar to the one she'd brought, but each unique in pose and expression. Women kneeling, bending, yielding. Men standing, commanding, receiving. The silent exchange of power made tangible in stone.

In a corner, half-hidden by drop cloths, she spotted a massive block of marble. Unlike everything else in the studio, it bore no marks of tools. No chisel scrapes or saw cuts. Just raw potential, gathering dust.

"Five years," Mikal said when he caught her looking at it.

"Why?" she asked.

"Not ready yet." His voice was neutral, factual.

"The stone? Or you?"

He simply looked at her, letting the question hang. Smiled. Then he moved to a workbench, began arranging tools with methodical precision. She continued her exploration, noting a small bed in the far corner. Clean sheets, neatly made. A place to rest between work sessions. Or something else?

She turned, following the perimeter of the room, and froze. Along the east wall hung a rack unlike any she'd seen in an art studio. Leather straps dangled from hooks. Wooden paddles of various shapes and sizes. Crops with leather tips. Floggers with multiple tails. Cuffs lined with soft material. All displayed with the same care as his sculpting tools, arranged by size and function.

Her breath caught. Heat grew in her belly, spreading outward. She recognized some items. Others were mysteries, their purpose unclear but suggestive. She should be shocked. Offended. Instead, she felt drawn toward them, fingers itching to touch leather, to feel it.

Campus rumors whispered in her memory. Mikal and his special lessons. Students emerging from his studio different somehow, more focused, more present, their work suddenly deeper, more authentic. Administration's discomfort. His eventual departure.

"These aren't for sculpting," she said, voice barely audible.

"Aren't they?" Mikal moved to stand beside her, close enough that she could feel his heat, smell the sage and stone dust on his skin.

She turned to face him, heart hammering. "The rumors about you. At the Institute. They’re true?"

"Some." His eyes never left hers. "Not all."

"Did you..." She swallowed, searching for words. "With students?"

"Only those who asked." No defensiveness in his tone. "Those who needed."

"Needed what?"

"To find their edges." He reached past her, fingers brushing a leather flogger. "Some artists work from the center outward. Others must find their boundaries first, then work inward."

Riann stared at the implements, mind racing. In any other context, they'd be objects of fear or revulsion. Here, they felt like extensions of Mikal's artistic process. Tools for shaping not just stone, but people. Finding edges. Working inward. The metaphor resonated with a part of her she'd kept carefully locked away.

"Is that why your work is so..." She gestured helplessly toward the sculptures.

"Alive?" he suggested.

"Yes. They're not just stone. They're... experiences."

He nodded, the barest movement. "Stone remembers the hand that shaped it."

Her gaze returned to the rack of implements. Something about them called to her, promised answers to questions she hadn't dared ask. Not just about art, but about herself. The parts she'd suppressed. The edges she'd never found.

"You think I need this," she said. Not a question.

"I think you came looking."

The truth of it struck her like a physical blow. She hadn't just followed the sculpture. She'd followed the dreams, Mikal bending her over workbenches, his hand in her hair, the bite on her shoulder. The submission. The release.

"I don't know how," she admitted, voice small.

"To submit?" His voice remained neutral, clinical almost. "Or to find your edges?"

"Either. Both." She turned away from the rack, unable to face it any longer. "I've always been careful. Safe."

"And your art?"

"The same. Careful. Safe." The admission hurt, a splinter working its way to the surface. "Empty."

Mikal said nothing, but she felt his assessment. Those eyes missed nothing. He saw the hunger in her, the fear, the desperate need for something she couldn't name. The look wasn't predatory. If anything, it was analytical. As if she were a block of stone, and he was deciding where to place the first chisel strike.

"Why that particular sculpture?" he asked finally, nodding toward the small kneeling woman she'd brought from Seattle. "Of all my work, why did that one call to you?"

She considered lying, considered a safe answer about artistic appreciation or technical skill. But she'd come too far for safety.

"Because she looks free," Riann said. "Kneeling like that, surrendering... she's more free than I've ever been."

The words hung between them, raw and honest. She waited for him to laugh, to dismiss her insight. Instead, he nodded, as if she'd confirmed something he already knew.

"Tomorrow," he said, moving toward the door. "Rest now."

"What happens tomorrow?" The question escaped before she could stop it.

Mikal paused at the threshold, silhouetted against the darkening sky. "You begin to find your edges." Simple. Matter of fact. As if he were discussing the weather, not the dismantling of her carefully constructed self.

He left her standing among the silent sculptures, their stone faces watching as she tried to absorb the enormity of what she'd admitted, what she'd asked for without saying the words.

Mikal led her back to the cabin in silence, the path lit only by stars and a sliver of moon. "You take the bed," he said, gesturing to a curtained alcove she hadn't noticed before. "I'll work." No room for argument in his tone. She nodded, suddenly aware of the bone-deep exhaustion that had been building since she'd left Seattle days ago. He gathered a few items, then disappeared back toward the studio, leaving her alone in the cabin's quiet.

The alcove contained a simple platform bed, hand-built from rough timber. The mattress was firm, covered with clean sheets that smelled of sage and sunlight. A single wool blanket, handwoven in earth tones, lay folded at the foot. No photographs on the walls. No personal mementos. Just the necessities, stripped of sentiment or excess.

Riann sat on the edge of the bed, running her fingers over the blanket's texture. The space felt both alien and familiar, like walking into a dream she'd had many times before. She explored the cabin's main room again, studying the bookshelves. Volumes on sculpture and anatomy shared space with Eastern philosophy, wilderness survival, tantric practices. Spines cracked from repeated reading. Pages marked with slips of paper. A mind constantly seeking, never satisfied with surface knowledge.

On a small shelf near the woodstove sat the only personal items she could find, a smooth river stone with a natural hole through its center; a bird's nest, abandoned and perfect; a small bronze figure, ancient-looking, of a man and woman intertwined. She touched nothing, feeling like an intruder in this carefully curated life.

Outside, the desert night had come alive with sounds. Coyotes yipped in the distance. Wind whispered through juniper branches. And underneath it all, the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of Mikal's hammer and chisel from the studio. She imagined his hands on stone, coaxing form from formlessness, and shivered.

She undressed in the dark, folding her dusty clothes into a neat pile. The sheets felt cool against her naked skin as she slid between them. Her body ached from the journey, muscles protesting every movement. Yet sleep remained elusive. The tap-tap-tap from the studio pulsed in time with her heartbeat. What was he creating out there? Would she recognize it when it was finished?

Her mind circled back to the rack of implements on the studio wall. The leather floggers, the crops, the restraints. Tools for finding edges. Shaping not just stone, but people. The image of herself kneeling like the sculpture haunted her, both terrifying and compelling. What would it feel like to surrender so completely? To empty her cup, as he'd said, making space for something new?

Tap-tap-tap. The sound lulled her toward sleep, her consciousness narrowing to the rhythm of hammer on chisel on stone. Her breathing slowed, deepened. The boundary between wakefulness and dream blurred, then dissolved.

She dreamt of the kneeling woman. No longer stone but flesh. No longer separate but herself. Knees pressed to cool floor, back straight, head slightly bowed. Hands resting on thighs, palms upturned in offering. The posture itself a prayer, a meditation, a surrender.

In the dream, Mikal circled her, studying her form from every angle. Not touching, not yet. Just seeing. His gaze a physical presence on her skin, raising goosebumps in its wake. The anticipation was exquisite torture. Would he touch her? Would he use those implements on her skin, finding her edges through pleasure and pain? The waiting stretched, pulling her nerves taut as wire.

A scream shattered the dream, high, feral, too close. Riann bolted upright in bed, heart hammering against her ribs. Cougar. The mate of the one whose skin hung on Mikal's studio wall? The warning he'd given when she first arrived echoed in her mind: "Its mate will be looking for me."

She sat frozen, listening. The night had gone silent. Even the tap-tap-tap from the studio had stopped. Had the sound been real, or part of her dream? The boundary felt uncertain, permeable. She pushed the blanket aside, swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The wooden floor was cool beneath her bare feet.

Moonlight streamed through the cabin's small windows, painting silver paths across the floor. She moved through rivers of light, drawn toward the door. No conscious thought guided her, just instinct, the same pull that had brought her to this remote canyon. She didn't reach for her clothes. Didn't wrap herself in the blanket. Naked, she stepped outside.

The desert night enveloped her, cool air caressing skin that felt too sensitive, too awake. Stars crowded the sky, more than she'd ever seen in Seattle, their light casting faint shadows. The path to the studio glowed silver-blue in the moonlight. She followed it, each step deliberate yet dreamlike. Was she sleepwalking? Fully conscious? The distinction seemed unimportant.

The studio door stood ajar, a wedge of warm light spilling onto the path. No sound came from within. She hesitated at the threshold, suddenly aware of her nakedness, her vulnerability. But the pull was stronger than her fear. She pushed the door open wider and stepped inside.

Mikal stood before a half-formed figure, chisel in hand, body coated in a fine dust of marble. He'd stripped to the waist, his lean torso all sinew and bone, skin weathered by sun and time. The muscles in his back flexed as he raised the hammer, paused, then lowered it without striking. He'd sensed her presence.

He turned slowly, those pale-blue eyes finding her in the doorway. No surprise registered on his face. No shock at her nakedness. Just calm assessment, as if her arrival was expected, inevitable. He set the tools down carefully on the workbench, movements precise and unhurried.

Something inside Riann shifted, clicked into place. Without thought, without hesitation, she moved to the center of the room. Knelt on the hard floor. Straightened her back. Bowed her head slightly. Placed her hands on her thighs, palms upturned in offering or surrender. The position felt right, necessary, as if her body had always known this shape but forgotten until now.

Silence stretched between them, taut with possibility. She didn't look up, didn't need to. She felt his approach, the shift in the air as he moved toward her. Still, he didn't touch her. Just circled slowly, studying her from every angle, as he had in her dream.

"Why?" His voice was low, neutral.

She didn't pretend to misunderstand. "To find my edges."

"And then?"

"Work inward. Find what's real."

He completed his circle, stood before her. She could see only his feet, his legs, refused to raise her eyes without permission. The silence extended, his assessment continuing. Was she doing it wrong? Was this not what he wanted? She began to tremble, doubt creeping in. Then his hand touched her hair, fingers threading through the strands, gentle yet firm.

"Breathe," he said.

She inhaled deeply, only then realizing she'd been holding her breath. His hand remained on her head, the contact grounding her to the moment, to her body.

"What do you feel?" he asked.

"Present," she whispered. "Here."

His other hand lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. No desire there, not yet. Only careful evaluation, the look of an artist assessing raw material.

"Good," he said simply. "That's where we start."

He knelt before her, bringing their faces level. His hands moved to her shoulders, steadying her trembling form. The touch was neither sexual nor clinical, but something between, respectful, present, aware. He drew her against his chest, arms encircling her, holding her as her body finally released the tension it had carried for days, weeks, years.

She didn't cry. Didn't speak. Just breathed against him, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, the solid reality of human contact. The kneeling position no longer felt like submission but like coming home to herself.

How long they remained that way, she couldn't say. Time had lost its linear quality. Eventually, she felt herself drifting, the exhaustion of her journey finally claiming her. Mikal must have sensed it, because he shifted, gathered her into his arms, and stood in one fluid motion.

"Sleep now," he murmured against her hair. "Dawn comes early."

He carried her back to the cabin, her body curled against his chest like a child's. She was asleep before they reached the bed, her dreams finally quiet, finally her own.