It had been five years since Christian last saw Ilsa. He asked to be dropped off at the beach, much to his driver’s disbelief.

“It’s quite a distance from any hotel,” the driver pointed out.

Christian just said, “I have a friend meeting me there. She has a car and will take me to the hotel afterwards. Thanks for the ride.”

The driver shrugged and drove off.

Ilsa had always felt drawn to the ocean. Even after all these years apart, she wanted to meet him at the beach in Bodega Cove instead of at her new home.

She and Christian had shared a connection that went deeper than anything physical. They could spend hours talking about spiritual ideas and wandering through parks or wooded trails. Sometimes they would simply hold each other for long stretches of time. They did have a sexual relationship, but it was never the center of what they were to each other. Eventually, Ilsa moved away for a new job, and they drifted out of touch, seeing each other only occasionally when life allowed. They both went on to have other partners and marriages, yet the bond between them never really faded.

The beach lay down a flight of steps from the highway, over a low hill. To the north, the base of a steep mountain spilled onto the sand, forming a rocky promontory that reached into the water. The trees along the slopes were turning with the colors of fall. To the south, the shoreline stretched into a soft, hazy distance.

The sand was empty, as one would expect on a weekday in late October. Still, Christian spotted Ilsa’s green towel with the big, colorful parrot on it, just as she had said. She had mentioned on the phone that she might go for a run up to the point before he arrived, and that he could find her there if he wanted.

He set his things down beside her towel and started running.

The sun was bright, and the air was mild for a breezy fall day. No one else was in sight as he made his way toward the promontory. He did see footprints though, Ilsa’s, scattered a bit by the wind. They led outward but not back.

The tracks brought him to a narrow cave in the rocky outcrop, just above the tide line. He figured it wouldn’t hurt to take a look and see if the opening went all the way through like a tunnel. Maybe he would find Ilsa resting on the other side. As he stepped deeper inside, the cave grew darker and tighter. He couldn’t see her tracks anymore, or much of anything at all. He was just about to turn around when his foot slipped. He dropped into a hole he hadn’t seen, struck his head on a rock, and everything went black.

When Christian came to, he struggled to remember where he was or how he had ended up there. The cave looked bigger and brighter than before, and he wondered if it opened out to the other side of the point, maybe with a drop between two different levels. He was lying on his back in a few inches of water. There was no blood, and to his surprise he couldn’t find any injuries at all. He pushed himself upright, his legs stiff but steady, and followed the light toward the opening. As he got closer, he reached for his phone out of habit, only to find his pocket empty. After checking every pocket he had, he still couldn’t find it. It must have fallen out when he did.

The cave mouth was wide and tall. To his left rose the mountain, or at least what he thought was the same mountain. The ridge behind the cave looked higher from this side, blocking any view of the ocean. He followed the cleft uphill. Birds were chirping somewhere nearby, and he could hear the faint rush of running water, maybe a stream. The sun was bright and warmer than it had any right to be.

The trail dipped gently downward, lined with blue, yellow, and purple flowers, then emerged from a stand of trees and led straight to a stone bridge spanning a river gorge. The wooden roof over the bridge had been carved in a way that let sunlight filter through in patches, scattering a checkerboard of shadow and light across the floor.

At the head of the bridge stood a tall, muscular woman, her back to him. She wore a burnt orange dress that fell to the tops of her leather shoes, and her long jet‑black hair streamed in the wind. The dress was fitted at the waist with a wide brown belt. In her right hand she held a long staff that looked like it was made of glass, topped with a broad, round crescent. Sunlight caught on the crescent and threw a rainbow across the bridge like a prism.

“Hello, miss, can you help me?” Christian called as he approached. “I bumped my head and I think I’m lost.”

She didn’t react. Not even a flinch. He stepped around in front of her, hoping to catch her eye.

“Hi. I need your help. I’m lost and I think I might be injured.”

She kept staring straight ahead. Without speaking, she lifted her staff and pointed the crescent toward the far end of the bridge.

“I could really use your help, lady,” he said, louder this time.

Still nothing. With a small flick of her wrist, she motioned again for him to cross.

The trail on the far side of the bridge sloped down through a field of purple, yellow, and blue flowers, leading to a clear lake surrounded by mountains that stretched all the way to the horizon. Christian saw no sign of the highway. What he did see was a sailboat anchored in the shallow water, with two men standing nearby and a woman lounging on the deck.

As he walked toward them, he called out, “Hi, I sure could use your help.”

“Certainly,” one of the men replied as both turned toward him. “How can we be of service?”

“Hi. My name is Christian. I’m a bit confused. I came to visit my friend and was looking for her on the beach and…” He explained everything that had happened, including the silent woman he’d met on the bridge.

“Oh, that’s Nola,” the second man said. “She doesn’t talk. That’s not her purpose.”

“I’m Alexander,” the first man added. “That’s Stephane, and over there is Olivia.”

The woman lifted her eyes toward Christian for a moment, then turned her face back to the sun and closed them again.

“Forgive me, but where am I?” he asked.

“You’re in Divenire,” Alexander said.

“Never heard of it. I was on the beach in Bodega Cove.”

“Can’t say I know it.” Stephane glanced at Alexander and gave a small smile.

“Then how did I get here? How far is it from the beach?”

“Well, I can’t help you there, Christian. This is Divenire. That’s all I know.”

Alexander stepped in gently. “Christian, it looks like you’ve been through a lot. Let me get you some food. We have wine too. We’ll try to answer your questions as best we can.”

This had to be a cult. He must have wandered to the wrong side of the point and stumbled onto some kind of compound. Christian had read about situations like this. He wondered if Ilsa had fallen in with these people too, or if she was already a member and this whole thing was some elaborate plan to recruit him. He decided it was best not to let any of that show.

“Sure,” he said. “I’d love some wine, but one question first if you don’t mind. I told you I was looking for my friend. Her name is Ilsa, she’s about five‑seven, blonde…”

Olivia suddenly sat up. “Ilsa! I loved her. She visited with us a bit ago. She’s fine. I have something that’ll settle you, and I’ll tell you how to get to Isabella and Sophia’s place. She went to visit them. You’re lucky to have her as a friend, she’s sweet.”

Stephane headed below deck to grab wine and bread while Christian joined the others, still wary but trying not to show it.

“So how do you know each other?” he asked.

“We’re from here,” Olivia said.

“You have homes on the lake?”

“No, we live on the sloop.”

“Well, how do you know each other then?”

“We met and just hit it off.”

“What do you all do for a living?”

“Do you mean work? We don’t work,” Olivia said lightly. “We just enjoy sailing on the lake and soaking up the sun.”

“But what did you do before you decided to… throw it all away?” Christian asked, choosing his words carefully.

Alexander answered. “A while back I was an accountant. Olivia was a webcam girl. Stephane was a bodyguard for CEOs, pretty well known and in demand. But that was a long time ago. We don’t think about it anymore. We live in the moment now and just enjoy life.”

No matter how he tried to steer the conversation, the only useful thing Christian learned was that Ilsa was staying at a cottage about a mile from the lake.

“You can’t miss it. It’s bright pink; nothing else like it in Divenire,” they told him. They never mentioned belonging to any group, but Stephane did talk excitedly about someone named “Simpson,” who often met with visitors. Christian assumed that must be the cult leader.

The path curved along the blue edge of the lake. Christian watched fish flicker just beneath the surface, and a soft breeze brushed the back of his neck. More flowers grew here, the same kind he’d seen near the bridge, and the smaller trees ahead were still in bloom. How is this possible in October? he wondered. There was even a faint scent of lilacs drifting through the air.

Despite the strangeness of Divenire and its unusual residents, he felt himself easing into the warm, fragrant morning. Work felt far away. The cottage he’d been told about appeared exactly as described: bright pink, tucked behind a stand of trees just off the path. It was a small, single‑story place, maybe twenty‑five feet wide and deep. The windows were open, each one holding a potted flower on its sill.

Voices floated from behind the cottage, blending with the light trill of a bird perched somewhere overhead. When Christian stepped around the corner, he found a stone patio pressed against a tall, wide rock wall. The rock had been worn smooth over time, inviting enough to sit on and take in the view. Beyond the patio, a flagstone path wandered toward a lush garden. The beds came in all shapes—some rectangular, others round—and each one was full of life. Tomatoes hung in clusters on their vines. Corn stalks swayed gently. Peppers shone in the morning sun. Some beds overflowed with flowers, while others sat bare, their soil freshly raked and waiting for new seedlings. At the center stood a graceful pergola draped in lilacs, their blossoms nodding in the breeze as the bird kept singing, adding a soft soundtrack to the scene.

Following the path, Christian spotted three women crouched in one of the beds, their hands busy with soil and seedlings. A small dog darted around them, barking with excitement before racing toward him. One of the women turned at the noise, her face brightening.

“Christian, you’re here!” she called, hurrying toward him with open arms.

Ilsa wrapped him in a hug, holding him as close as two people could. Then she pulled him toward the other two. “I can’t believe you’re here, too. What a surprise. Come meet my friends. Sophia, this is Christian. Christian, meet Isabella.”

Both women looked harmless enough, though their clothes and hair gave off a slightly New Age vibe. They seemed older than him and Ilsa. Isabella spoke first.

“Ilsa’s told us all about you. Honestly, I thought you’d be taller.”

Sophia laughed. “Not as geeky as I expected, though.”

“Nice to meet you,” Christian said. “Would it be alright if I talked with Ilsa alone for a moment?”

Ilsa shook her head. “Christian, they’re fine. Whatever you say to me, they can hear too.”

There was nothing in her eyes to suggest she was one of them, but he still wasn’t sure. “Alright. Maybe Isabella and Sophia can help. I had some questions about this place, how I got here, and more importantly, how we can get—”

“Christian,” Isabella cut in gently, “I understand why you’re impatient, but there’s no need to rush. Simpson is the caretaker here. He can answer anything you want to know. That’s what he’s here for. We promise. Let us show you the garden before you go.”

Ilsa took his hand, and the four of them walked through the plots, each woman taking turns explaining what they’d planted. When they reached the last bed, Isabella’s expression softened.

“I planted this dwarf cherry when I arrived,” she said, looking at the thin little tree covered in blossoms. “Not so different from you, in a way. I like to think someone—maybe Ilsa or you—will take care of the garden when Sophia and I eventually leave.”

“So people do leave?” Christian asked quickly. “Can we just get out of this… compound, or whatever it is?”

“You should talk to Simpson now,” Isabella said. “There’s a skiff pulled up on the beach below us.”

They walked down toward the water. From the beach, Isabella pointed across the lake to a glass building rising out of the mountainside, framed by trees. “That’s where you should go,” she said. “He’ll explain everything.”

The skiff waiting for them was long and narrow, the kind he’d seen in old Vietnam documentaries. A thin paddle lay across the seats, marked with the same crescent symbol he’d noticed on the staff of the woman on the bridge—Nola, as he now knew.

“If you want me to help with the garden, I could stay,” Ilsa offered, but the other two women shook their heads.

“You know you need to go with him. That’s your purpose right now,” Sophia said. “We’ll be here when you come back.”

Christian was caught off guard that Ilsa had even considered staying behind with her friends, especially after he’d come so far to find her. The thought stung, though he was relieved she’d changed her mind and would be coming with him after all.

He pulled the skiff into the shallows and steadied it while Ilsa climbed in. The boat moved easily once he started paddling. Behind them, Isabella called, “See you two soon,” before she and Sophia turned back to their garden beds.

Christian kept his voice low, not wanting anyone to hear. “Hopefully not,” he muttered.

He had a hundred questions waiting to spill out now that they were finally alone. Who were these people? Why were they here, and how were they supposed to get out? But before he could speak, Ilsa reached over and gently took the paddle from his hands, setting it in the bottom of the boat so they could drift. She looked into his eyes with a warmth that made the rest of the world fall away, then eased into his lap and kissed him like she was savoring the sun.

“We’ve got all the time we need,” she murmured. “And it’s been so long.”

She removed her bralette and pulled her skirt to the side. Christian quickly undressed, the intensity between them growing. He gently entered her.

Later, he lay with his eyes closed, quietly counting his blessings. Ilsa rested in the crook of his arm, the sky above them a perfect, cloudless blue. For someone who had been knocked unconscious and wandered into a cult compound, the day felt strangely glorious. Things could have been much worse, he told himself.

Ilsa stirred when the skiff’s hull scraped against the far shore. “Christian, we’re here,” she whispered.

He opened his eyes, smiled, and said, “Maybe all’s right with the world after all.”

“We can keep it that way.”

She pointed toward the hill just off the shore, where the glass building they’d seen earlier shimmered in the light. As they walked up the narrow path, Christian could see straight inside. It wasn’t a house so much as a single room, and in the center sat an old man rocking gently in a chair. His long white hair framed deeply tanned skin, and his expression was unreadable.

As they approached, a door slid open to let them in. The old man—who Christian assumed must be Simpson—rose with surprising ease, no hint of age in the movement, and gestured toward the floor.

“Sit right there,” he said.

“Mr. Simpson, I’d like—”

“I know what you would like.”

Christian sighed. “You know, I wish just once someone here would let me finish a sentence.”

“Well, we do have all the time in the world. I could sit here and patiently listen to all your stories of misfortune, but why would I? I’m the caretaker of Divenire. It’s my purpose to know everyone who lives here. Christian, you want to know how you got here, what this place is, and how you can leave.”

“That’s right. I do.”

“As I said, I know. First, there’s only one way out of Divenire. And that cave you came from isn’t it. That was just your way in.”

“That’s crazy.”

Ilsa touched his arm. “It’s not, Christian. It’s true.”

“There are people here,” Christian said. “They have food, homes, lives. How did they get in?”

Simpson let out a long breath. “Each in their own way. They come past Nola to reach Divenire, just like you did after your fall in the cave. She’s the guardian. That’s her purpose.”

There it was again, that talk of “purpose.” Christian decided it was better not to poke at it.

“And you keep everyone trapped here once they arrive?”

“Do you feel trapped? Has anyone trapped you?”

“I…” Christian hesitated. “I don’t know.”

“Go to the bridge and see Nola with Ilsa. Then decide for yourself. I promise you, you won’t be able to return the way you came. I can’t explain why, but Nola can. You’ll have to understand it on your own. You need to, so that your time will come. Ilsa understands better than you do.”

Simpson eased back into his chair and began rocking again. Behind them, the door slid open, a quiet signal that their audience was over.

“Do you?” Christian whispered to Ilsa as they stepped outside.

“I remember the cave,” she said, linking her arm through his. “I remember what happened to me there. Better than you do.”

They walked around the far side of the lake. There were plenty of paths, but each one either curved back toward the water or ended at a wall of rock, a cliff, or a sudden ravine. Eventually they stepped into the familiar field of flowers, and Christian knew the bridge was only a short distance ahead. The sun was still high, though it felt like he’d arrived here hours earlier.

Nola stood at the far end of the bridge exactly as before, her staff in hand. Christian stepped onto the span, easing Ilsa behind him without taking his eyes off the guardian. Nola didn’t move.

“What is this place?” he asked. “Simpson said you’d show us.”

She stayed silent. As he edged forward, she slammed her staff hard on the wooden planks and said, “None shall pass this way.”

So she could speak after all.

The top of her staff flared with a light as bright as the sun, and she lifted her gaze to the sky. Since arriving in Divenire, Christian had never seen so much as a wisp of cloud, but now, in the direction she was looking, one formed out of nowhere and rose above them. Within it, an image appeared: a woman in a delivery room, a nurse and midwife beside her, holding a newborn that had just entered the world. The baby’s first cries echoed faintly through the air as it drew its first breaths.

He heard Simpson’s booming, thunderous voice roll down from above: “This is for each of you, to be born again.”

As Christian put the pieces together, everything clicked into place. The cave, the fall, Ilsa’s hints about him remembering more than he realized—it all lined up. It was strange to think they must have died close together in time. He wondered briefly what whoever found their bodies would think of the scene. But there was no sadness in him. He already understood what came next, why he was here, why the people of Divenire stayed despite every reason to leave, and the quiet certainty of what his own place in this world was meant to be.

Ilsa slipped her hand into his. “You knew already,” he said.

“I remembered a lot more of what happened to me, and I figured it out faster. They told me everyone has to come to terms with Divenire in their own time. Are you okay?”

He smiled at her. “I couldn’t be better. This place couldn’t be better. Let’s go swimming. Afterwards, I want to plant some sunflowers in Isabella’s and Sophia’s garden.”