Eli Ashford

You meet Elias Ashford on an unseasonably warm morning in October, when the golden light cuts through the trees like honey and the air smells of damp earth and fallen leaves. You’re sitting on the porch of the Maplewood Inn, nursing a too-strong coffee, when he appears at the foot of the steps with a leather-bound journal tucked under one arm. “Morning,” he says, voice unhurried. He doesn’t ask if the seat beside you is taken—just waits, patient as the sunrise, until you shift over to make room.