Lumberlandia Returns — Chapter 1.1: Marcos — The Visitor

(Interlude: The Caretaker’s Diary)

Dear diary,

Long day. The greenhouse kept its own weather again. Misters on before sunup, my sleeves damp by seven. We’re still short on seedlings after last summer’s burns to the north. Everyone wants trees yesterday. We can’t grow yesterday. Two-year clocks don’t care about urgency; they care about light, water, and hands that show up.

One seed in today’s batch came up wrong in the right way. A blush under the skin. Late to crack, stubborn to rise. Pink, not sick. I set it aside, told myself I’d cull it tomorrow, then watered it anyway. Curiosity is expensive; I paid a little.

Came home. Gym. Eggs. Quiet TV I didn’t watch. That shape of evening where the house feels like a held breath. I thought about people I could text and didn’t. Thought about couple-things—two shoulders, one blanket, someone rolling their eyes at my show and staying anyway. Close sounds easy when I’m not trying to do it.

The phone lit up. A new message, not a name I knew, but the face was… yeah. Marcos. Brazilian. Curly hair, small smile like he knew how to keep a secret but would share if you asked nice. We spoke in the app, easy cadence. No promises. No heavy biography. Sometimes it’s better that way.

He’s in town for hikes, staying at an inn nearer the ridge. He’d heard the rumors about our “gay lumberjack sanctuary” and wanted to see if the myth breathes. It does. He arrived in a clean sweatshirt and the kind of cologne that fades at the right pace. Heavy accent, Rio, warm vowels. Actor, trying his luck. He told stories with his hands the way some men tell them with their eyes.

We kissed. I don’t usually love kissing, but this made other plans for my rules. He was generous about pacing, like he’d learned to listen to the beat underneath the song. We were careful. We were adults. We didn’t narrate. There’s a mercy in not naming everything.

After, he lay there and looked at the ceiling like it might applaud. We laughed at nothing for a while. I poured water. We took turns drinking like it was a ritual and not a cup. The climb was good; the descent was kind. That’s the part that stays with me: the way down.

I wanted the sitcom version for a second—grocery runs, split laundry, the way one person always steals the better pillow—but he’s passing through. That truth has its own gentleness if I let it. He showed me some of his reels. He’s got presence. If luck notices him, I’ll be able to say, “Once, in Lumberlandia—” and mean it without owning anything.

He dressed in the dark like a considerate thief. We hugged in the doorway because it felt like the right word. He said “até logo” and I pretended not to know what it means. Later I followed his account like a teenager, then laughed at myself and set the phone down.

Back to the greenhouse in the morning. I’ll check the pink one again, pretend I’m not checking harder. If it keeps fighting upward, I’ll revise the plan and call it care. If it stalls, I’ll revise the plan and call it care. Either way, I’ll be there. That’s the job.

I don’t know if I want what the men who hook up every day want. I know I don’t want to become a person who spends all my hours chasing the same ten minutes. Desire is real. So is time. I’m trying to spend both like they matter.

Marcos was good. Marcos was a visitor. That’s allowed. Near isn’t the same as close; tonight, near was enough.

With love,

—Caretaker

Exclusive 💪MightyPro Image and Video Gallery