Noel
It’s colder than the Arctic out here, but I can’t bring myself to go back inside.
Not when the porch lights Nash strung are casting this golden halo over the front steps like something out of a dream. The air’s sharp, stinging my nose, and the snow’s falling again—soft and slow, like feathers from a busted pillow.
And he’s standing right there, five feet from me, gazing out into the trees like he belongs to them. Like heisone of them. Tall, still, carved out of mountain rock and bad intentions.
Neither of us says a word.
Because right then—just beyond the edge of the woods—somethingsings.
A low, eerie groan that vibrates through the trees like the earth itself is sighing.
“What was that?” I whisper, wrapping my arms around my body.
Nash lifts his head. “Phantom River.”
“It sounded like a cello under water.”
He jerks his chin toward the woods. “C’mon. You’ve never heard it crackle?”
“Is it dangerous?”
“Only if you don’t know what you’re doing.”
“Oh good. Because following a shirtless mountain man into the dark woods after hearing ghost noises isexactlywhat I pictured for this Christmas.”
He glances over his shoulder and smirks. “You coming or not, city girl?”
I grumble and follow, boots crunching behind him through the fresh snow.
The trees open up like a cathedral, bare limbs reaching toward the moon. Down below, the Phantom River stretches wide and pale, blanketed in ice. Steam rises in wisps where it isn’t frozen solid, and the wind whistles through the pines like they’re telling secrets.
But it’s thesoundthat makes me stop in my tracks.
It starts low. A groaning rumble that rolls beneath our feet, like a giant exhaling in its sleep. Then a sharpcrack, followed by a high-pitched whine that arcs through the silence like a haunted violin string.
“Holy crap,” I breathe.
Nash doesn’t say anything. Just stands next to me, looking out at the ice like it’s an old friend.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmur.
He nods. “Happens every winter. Ice expands and shifts. Cracks under pressure. But it holds.”
“That’s poetic.”
He shrugs. “It’s just physics.”
“No,” I say, “it’s poetry. The earth making music.”
He glances at me, something unreadable in his eyes. Then he says, “This is my favorite time of year.”
“Really? Mr. I-Hate-Tinsel likes the holidays?”
“Not the holidays. The quiet. The solitude. The way the world slows down when it’s buried in snow.”
I wrap my arms tighter around myself. “I’ve never heard silence like this. In the city, even the silence is loud.”
