It was a quiet, peaceful afternoon as I rode along a mountain trail, feeling enveloped by the beauty and calmness of nature. Wanting to capture the moment, I quickly took a photograph of myself with the horse, the vast scenery stretching out behind us, and sent it to my husband without a second thought. It was meant to be a simple snapshot of my day—nothing more than me, the horse, and the landscape.
At first, I brushed it off as an odd coincidence. Saddles could be old, repurposed, or carry markings that mean nothing specific. But my husband didn’t see it that way. He was disturbed, convinced this wasn’t a random coincidence but rather a sign of lingering ties to my past. He sought out someone who could analyze the image, eager to confirm his suspicion that the initials weren’t just random—they represented a connection that felt too close for comfort.I tried to explain it away. After all, it could have been any saddle with any initials. Yet for him, those two letters, “A.M.,” seemed like irrefutable proof that my past was closer than I’d let on.
