Ryder
Evening brings its own brand of restless energy. But as the sun sets, the lights flicker ominously.
Once. Twice. Then they cut out entirely with a soft electronic sigh that echoes through the cabin.
“Well, that was fun while it lasted,” Laney calls from the kitchen, and I hear the familiar scrape of a match against a striker, the soft whoosh of oil lamps coming to life. “Back to pioneer living.”
“At least we’re getting good at this,” I reply, setting candles around the living room. The warm glow transforms the space, making our handmade decorations look even more magical against the dancing shadows.
This feels less like an emergency now and more like choosing something slower, softer. Something that belongs just to us.
“So what’s the entertainment plan for tonight?”
“Well, we could always see what’s on TV,” I say, gesturing toward the dark screen with mock seriousness.
She settles onto the couch opposite the fire, arranging the kittens on a soft blanket on her lap. They’re tiny bundles of fur, all sleep and soft squeaks, kneading blindly against her fingers as she strokes them.
“Very funny,” she says, smiling down at them. “Seriously though, what did people do for fun before electricity?”
“Made music,” I say, the answer coming easily. The memory of winter evenings on An’Wa is real enough I can almost smell it. Community gatherings where voices would rise together in songs older than memory. “Told stories. Actually talked to each other instead of staring at screens.”
“Music, huh?” Interest lights her eyes. “The song you taught me earlier today was lovely. You’ve got a nice voice.”
The compliment settles warmly in my chest. “My mother always said music was the universal language. That it could bridge any gap between people.”
“Smart woman.” Laney tucks her feet under her, getting comfortable. “What kind of music did you grow up with?”
I think of those gatherings, the way voices would weave together in harmonies that needed no instruments. “Traditional An’Wa songs. Work songs, celebration songs, lullabies.” I pause, studying her face in the candlelight. “What about you?”
“My grandmother loved Christmas carols. She’d sing them year-round while she was cooking or gardening.” Her smile turns wistful, soft with memory. “I probably know every verse of ‘Silent Night’ and ‘White Christmas.’”
“Teach me,” I say, surprising myself with how much I want this—to share this piece of her world, to hear her voice lift in song.
“You want to learn Christmas carols?”
“Why not? Cultural exchange program.”
Her laugh is becoming one of my favorite sounds—unguarded and genuine. “All right, but I’m warning you—I’m not exactly a professional vocalist.”
“Neither am I.”
She starts with “Silent Night,” her voice soft and sweet in the candlelit room. I listen intently, absorbing not just the melody but the way her face softens as she sings, the obvious affection she has for these familiar words. There’s something vulnerable in the way she offers this—like she’s sharing more than just a song.
When she finishes, I urge her to start again and attempt to join in. My deeper voice weaves around hers, creating harmonies neither of us expected.
“That was beautiful,” she says softly, her gaze finding mine in the firelight. “Your voice adds something… grounding.”
“You make it sound like something precious instead of just a song everyone knows.”
We trade verses, then entire songs. She teaches me “Jingle Bells” and “White Christmas,” while I share a simple An’Wa melody about winter fires and the promise of spring’s return. Each exchange feels like a small gift, a way of sharing our worlds without having to explain them.
Somewhere during “Silver Bells,” we drift closer together on the couch. Not deliberately—or maybe entirely deliberately. Our arms touch first, then our knees. The physical contact feels natural, inevitable, like gravity pulling us into each other’s orbit.
The space between us seems to hum with awareness. Every point where we touch sends warmth spreading through my chest.
“This is nice,” she murmurs, and Ifeelthe words as much as hear them, her breath warm against my shoulder.
“Yeah,” I agree, acutely aware of how her hair brushes my arm, how her scent—vanilla and woodsmoke—fills my lungs with every breath. “It is.”
