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The rain never stopped in Forks. It wasn't heavy, it wasn't violent. It was a steady, persistent drizzle as if the sky were whispering rather than speaking. In his first week in town, Nate had already begun to understand that Forks didn't need to shout to assert itself; the murmur of water through the leaves, the distant creaking of the damp trees, and the fog that dawned embracing the rooftops were enough.
It was as if the whole landscape was designed to make you hear yourself more than you'd like.
He hadn't been out much. The weather, his mood, and the emotional transition of being under the roof of a grandmother he barely knew kept him inside. But to his surprise, the coexistence wasn't tense, but rather strangely light. Margaret—a woman with unruly white hair, mismatched sweaters, and a soft laugh that seemed to escape her lips effortlessly—wasn't strict, rigid, or maternal in the classic sense. She was more of a steady presence, the kind that didn't give instructions but didn't disappear either. She offered, unwittingly, a form of comfort that didn't come with rules or expectations.
"You don't have to talk if you don't want to," she told him one morning as she stirred sugar into her tea, not looking directly at him. "This is something new for me too. Just don't die in the bathtub and everything will be fine." She added the last bit as if it were a rehearsed joke, her smile slight and restrained as if she weren't entirely sure he'd understand.
Nate didn't know whether to laugh or pretend he hadn't heard her. Instead, he nodded gently and bit into a piece of now-cold toast. He noticed her watching him out of the corner of her eye, though she acted distracted with her spoon.
Margaret had a way of moving that seemed random: she would turn on the radio and turn it off after five minutes, turn on a lamp only to leave the room, or sit on the porch smoking cigarettes that she rarely finished. Sometimes she would talk to the cat—a fat old man named Dusty—as if he were a lifelong friend, using phrases like "You again?" or "Tell me if I'm crazy, but that boy is too quiet, don't you think?"
Nate didn't intervene. He observed. He measured the gestures, the silences, the way the cigar smoke curled before disappearing. He knew how to read between the lines. She didn't say it, but he could tell his grandmother was nervous about his presence. Not explicitly, not out of fear, but out of uncertainty. As if he were an object she didn't quite know where to place. He could tell in the long pauses, in the slightly exaggerated gestures of kindness, in the way she sometimes looked at him when she thought he wasn't looking.
And yet, in that same nervousness, there was genuine affection. Not from someone who cares out of duty, but from someone who doesn't know how to care, but tries.
In the garden, Nate helped her a couple of times. She cut branches haphazardly, without any method, as if gardening were more an excuse to get moving than a real task.
"Do you want me to pass you the big scissors?" he asked, with a half smile.
—Do you know how to use them?
-Yeah.
"Thank God, because I have no idea what I'm doing," she said with a shrug that made him smile.
That was what Nate appreciated: that she didn't pretend to know, that she didn't try to cover up her ignorance with authority. Margaret let things be, let the days slide by like that perpetual rain that never quite stopped falling.
One particularly gray afternoon, he went up to the attic. He'd been putting it off for days, but something in the silence of the day compelled him. The creaking of the wood beneath his steps seemed almost comforting, as if the house spoke a language he didn't yet fully understand, but recognized.
The air up there was permeated with dust, old paper, and forgotten fabric. A smell of the past, of memory on hold. He turned on a small lamp and began to silently sort through it. Boxes with handwritten names, photo albums with bent corners, rusty toys… and then, a hand-bound notebook. He recognized it instantly. It was his father's.
He picked it up carefully, as if afraid to wake her. The ink was faded, the pages worn. His father wrote in firm, orderly handwriting. And what he wrote wasn't trivial: he spoke of the native tribes of the area, particularly the Quileute. He mentioned legends passed down orally: figures that glittered in the sun, men who walked like wolves, shadows that left no trace.
What disturbed him wasn't the content, but the tone. His father didn't write like a skeptic. He did so with respect, as if these stories weren't just folklore, but clues to something deeper.
Nate closed the journal with a slight feeling of unease. He didn't believe in such things, and yet... there was something. A voice in the back of his mind that kept asking questions.
That night he dreamed of forests. Of trees that rose like the columns of an ancient cathedral. Of figures in the mist that didn't follow him, but didn't move away either. He woke before dawn, breathing heavily.
He went downstairs silently. He found Margaret sitting in the dark kitchen, holding a cup of tea.
"Nightmares?" he asked without turning around.
—I didn't sleep well.
"It happens to me when I leave the radio on. Or when I eat cheese for dinner," he said with the same casualness with which others would recommend therapy.
That was the closest thing Margaret could give to advice. Nate watched her for a second longer. Her back arched, the steam from the tea rising like a sigh, her bare feet on the cold floor. It was a picture that spoke volumes.
The next day, he needed some fresh air. The confinement, the diary, the dreams. Everything was crowding in. He set off in his Mustang. The roar of the engine under the gray sky had something almost ceremonial about it. Driving calmed him and also connected him to his father, who had spent countless afternoons restoring that car.
A silver Volvo passed him on the highway. Elegant, too much for Forks. He couldn't see the driver, but something about the car seemed off. He made a mental note of the model and the details. That's how his mind worked: he accumulated pieces until something clicked.
He ended up in the town's commercial district. Everything seemed closed or about to close. He walked leisurely, looking at the businesses, the curtains, the hand-painted signs. Each window reflected a piece of his face, distorted by the rain.
In front of the hardware store, he ran into a familiar face.
"Charlie Swan?" he asked, doubt still in his tone.
Charlie looked at him with mild surprise. His weathered, frank face took half a second to soften.
—Hi Nate. Are you lost?
"No, sir," Nate replied immediately, with that mixture of automatic respect and caution he used with adults he didn't know well.
Charlie looked at him like someone looking at a photo he hadn't seen in years.
—Damn… I'm still disturbed by how much you look like your father. It makes me feel young again. What are you doing here? Have the rains already eaten you away?
Nate laughed softly. He watched as Charlie scratched the back of his neck with his thumb, a nervous but kind gesture. He read his body language easily: he was a direct man, but with a kindness that didn't need to be expressed in grand gestures.
They went to Forks Coffee Shop. The place smelled of old wood and reheated coffee. Charlie ordered soup. Nate ordered a burger he wasn't sure he'd finish. It wasn't the food, it was the weight of the moment.
The conversation flowed naturally. Charlie spoke in short, measured sentences, like someone who has learned that silence can also speak volumes.
"Your dad was a curious man," he said, blowing on his coffee. "Quiet. Always listening. He got along well with Billy Black. Did you ever meet him?"
—No. Who is it?
—An old man from the Quileute Reservation. Nice guy. A bit stubborn. But if you're interested in understanding this place… he's the one who can tell you what the books don't.
Nate nodded. He didn't need to say anything else. He jotted down the name like a coordinate.
Charlie also mentioned names: Mike Newton, Jessica Stanley, and Eric Yorkie. All from established families in Forks. Nate listened to them but didn't feel anything. Not yet. His mind registered no urgency, only information waiting.
"And then there are the Cullens," Charlie added. "They're Dr. Cullen's children. He adopted several kids. Very quiet, but good people. They're some of the few kids in this town who've never caused me any trouble."
Nate raised an eyebrow. Something in the tone made him pay attention. Too polite, perhaps?
—Did my father know them?
—Not that I know of. They arrived later. But… they don't go unnoticed.
The comment hung in the air like the echo of a musical note. Nate didn't respond, but his thoughts churned.
When they finished, Charlie looked at him with a half smile.
—I'm going fishing with Billy next week. Would you like to come? You could meet him. And also have some fun.
Nate nodded. He struggled to express gratitude, but he felt it.
—I would like to, yes.
As he walked home, the rain was barely letting up. A faint light fell through the clouds like a promise. Forks was still somber, and remote… but for the first time, Nate felt he wasn't completely lost.
Maybe, just maybe, he was right where he needed to be. Even if he didn't yet understand why.