1
Nova
Stepping out of my cabin has to be one of my favorite pastimes, even if the frigid air nips at my skin instantly.
Snow falls so blissfully from the sky, I catch myself in awe for a minute, soaking up the view.
This is only my second winter up here, but it’s as breathtaking as the first. From up here, I can get an eyeful of Hope Peak. The small town is being drowned out in white.
Shutting the front door behind me, I get lost in the view for a minute. It’s so pretty.
Through the falling snow, across the road that leads further up the mountain, rests another cabin.
Snow collects in a thick, unbroken layer on the roof, and a single, rickety rocking chair sits abandoned on the porch, a silent monument to nothing.
The only spots of color are the burgundy shutters flanking the windows, but even they are faded, their cheerfulnessbleached out by years of sun and cold. The whole place gives off a chill that has nothing to do with the temperature, a profound loneliness that seems to push back against the warmth of my own fire.
It feels utterly deserted, a lack of life anywhere to be seen.
But someone is there. The proof is the black truck parked beside it, its hood and bed already dusted with a thin, patient layer of white. A puff of smoke escapes the chimney opening at the top. Windows glow softly.
Mason is home.
Clutching the box of nails in my hand, I tear my eyes away before I’m caught staring. With how much snow keeps falling, I need to be quick if I want to fix my issue.
Leaving the porch, I grunt and groan as I make my way toward the small shed tucked at the side. The lock is frozen, just my luck. Thankfully, all it takes is a little friction and some determination before I pop it open.
Hunting down a hammer I regret forgetting in here, and dragging out a ladder twice my size, I’m heading back to the front of my cabin.
Up ahead, I frown at the garland sagging from the roof. Something as simple as the wind could’ve blown it free. Or, maybe a critter thought it was real pine needles. There’s no telling. Either way, it’s not something I can let freely sway.
I’ve got a reputation to uphold here. No flaws allowed here.
Grunting under my breath as I stomp through the fresh layer of snow, the ladder leaves behind a path as I have to drag it. Once I’ve reached the spot, balancing the tool and box in my hand, the ladder thumps against the roof.
Giving it a small shake to make sure it’ll stay in place, I stare at the step at my eye level. Taking in a breath, I wait.
How long will it be this time? A minute? No, thirty seconds.
Silently, I predict when I’ll no longer be alone. By now, this is nothing but a little game of mine. Something only I can do to make my day a little better.
After living here for more than a year, I can tell the difference of something happening by chance or not.Thisisn’t a chance. No, not even close.
Forty seconds.
Behind me, I hear it. The slam of a screen door. Heavy booted steps across a wooden porch.
The hairs on the back of my neck rise, but I don’t turn and look. Even though Ireallywant to, I don’t.
Shoving the box of nails into my coat pocket, I grip the hammer and start to climb.
The ten feet it takes to reach the saggy garland isn’t what makes my legs suddenly turn into jello. Instead, it’s the sudden loudchopthat comes with one log turning into two pieces.
My neighbor isnosy. Despite sharing his displeasure over and over again through squinted glares and unspoken words, there’s one thing that’s clear.
Any time I’m outside doing anything, he’s right there, too. Rarely complaining in words, only sending his judgmental stares toward me in waves.
Hearing another loud chop, I take the risk and glance over my shoulder, hoping to catch a little glimpse for myself.
