Engraved Upon Our Hearts

There was no choice but to return on the path that led me into the woods. It was the only exit, the trail boxed in on three sides by towering pine trees looming over the narrow clearing like timeworn sentinels. Their limbs stretched like arms, draped in bluish-green needles that filtered the sun’s rays as they traveled toward the mossy ground below.

I’d run this trail dozens of times before—drawn by the minty aroma of the trees, the musty scent of the forest ground, and the solitude it offered. But something about this afternoon felt different. Heavier. Quieter.

Too quiet.

When I reached the turnaround point, a sudden, inexplicable dread gripped me, like a cold wind slicing through the summer heat. I slowed to a jog, then to a walk, my breath shallow, my skin slick with sweat and prickling with unease. A voice in my head—clear and urgent—warned: Don’t go back that way again.

But what else could I do? There was no other easy way out, and cutting through the trees to reach the parking lot was out of the question. Being lost in the woods was not how I wanted to spend my evening.

The weight of the warning rooted me in place, heart pounding as if I were mid-sprint. As I began to walk again, the familiar crunch of twigs and dried leaves beneath my black Nikes seemed exaggerated—deafening.

.

I scanned the landscape with sharp, anxious glances, turning in a full circle like a skittish animal. There was no movement, no sound beyond my footfalls, only the pine needles above me swaying like dancers in the silent breeze.

A flicker of color danced at the edge of my vision. I turned slowly, like prey trying not to draw a predator’s eye.

At first, I thought it was a trick of the light or a scrap of fabric caught on a branch. But no. There—just off the trail, where the canopy thinned enough for sunlight to filter through—a flash of color caught my eye. A bloom of pink azaleas, alone among the greens and browns that dominated the path. Peeking out from beneath a bush: shoes. Black with a white swoosh.

My breath caught. Was someone else out here? A jogger who had collapsed? A transient? The homeless sometimes camped in these woods, and it wasn’t unusual to come upon a small tent. Curiosity wrestled with caution as I took a hesitant step off the trail and into the clearing.

I called out toward the shoes. “Hello? Are you okay?”

The shoes didn’t move.

I crept closer, pushing aside ferns and swatting away gnats.

I gasped when I saw them: legs. They had become mottled and purplish with livor mortis and bloated at the ankles. Dead legs extending from red running shorts.

My throat tightened as the cloying, sour stench hit me so hard it turned my stomach and made my eyes water. Her upper body was barely visible, obscured by a squirming blanket of maggots and beetles that had taken up residence in the flesh.

I screamed—a sharp, piercing sound that shattered the silence and sent birds shrieking into the sky.

I tried to flee, but caught my foot on a thick oak root and fell backward, landing hard on my elbow. Pain shot up my arm, but adrenaline pushed it aside.

With trembling hands and legs, I rose from the ground and pulled my phone from the mesh fanny pack strapped around my waist. I punched in three numbers and backed onto the path, away from the body.

“911, what is your emergency?”

I swallowed hard, willing my voice to work. “I’m on the jogging path in Canopy Park, and… and there’s a body. There’s a body in the woods.”

“Yes, ma’am. Are you saying the person is deceased?”

“I… I’m pretty sure, yes.” I took a shaky breath, fighting to stay focused, to sound rational. “There’s swelling. Bruising. Blood.”

I listened as the dispatcher relayed my information to responders in the field, her voice calm and practiced.

“Ma’am, are you safe where you are? Is there anyone else around?”

“No, there’s no one,” I said, scanning the area again. I inched closer to the body, fighting a primal urge to run as fast as I could.

That was when I saw it—something glinting in the dirt beside the woman’s head. A silver, heart-shaped locket.

I hesitated, then bent forward carefully, taking care not to touch the body. The chain was broken, yet the locket still clung to it. I picked it up and gently brushed the dirt from the pendant onto my red jogging shorts, then turned it over in my palm. An inscription was etched into the back in Edwardian Script. I recognized the flowing lines and ornate capitals—it was the same font my husband had chosen for the necklace he gave me on our fifth anniversary. The gift had come as a surprise, as we had begun to experience symptoms of the “five-year itch” we had been warned about.

I read the words slowly, then read them again. Love takes off the masks we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within.

The dispatcher’s voice crackled in my ear, and I dropped the necklace.

“A cruiser is on its way. ETA: five minutes. Please remain where you are.”

I shouted into the phone, “I can’t. I can’t be here!”

Squeezing the locket, I bolted, driven by something more substantial than fear. Panic, yes—confusion too—and a gut-level sense that something was deeply, terribly wrong. I wouldn’t stop running until I reached my car.

Fifteen minutes later, three officers charged toward me, one of them calling, “Where is she?”

I continued running as I answered his question, panting over my shoulder, “She’s two miles in near the turnaround point.”

By the time I reached my car, I was coughing hard from exertion, my lungs raw. Emergency vehicles continued to stream into the park, which was now pulsing with motion as dusk drained the light from the sky.

I ripped my keys from the fanny pack and threw myself into the car, breath uneven, face wet with a mix of sweat and tears.

I tossed my phone onto the passenger seat and stared at the locket clutched in my fist, the muscles in my hands and arms tight with fear.

With my free hand, I reached beneath my singlet and pulled out a silver chain, a heart-shaped locket dangling from it.

I fumbled with the locket I’d taken, opening it to reveal a wedding photo. Me, wearing a white-lace veil brushed across one shoulder, my groom’s arm around my waist, his forehead resting against mine.

We look happy.

My fingers worked the clasp on the locket around my neck, and it sprang open easily.

I knew what I’d see there: Same photo, same me, same him.

I closed the locket and flipped it to read the inscription there: Love takes off the masks we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within.

I held the two hearts in my hands and stared at the words until they blurred, waiting for something to make sense.