SOREN
The morning light came in soft and gold, spilling across the cabin floor like a blessing Soren didn’t feel she’d earned. The stove was still warm from the fire she’d banked overnight, and the smell of pine smoke mixed with coffee in the air. Outside, the world was wrapped in white — smooth, unbroken snow blanketing the trees and the frozen lake below. It was quiet enough to hear her own heartbeat.
Christmas morning.
She filled her mug, then hesitated — reaching, as she always did, for the second one. The plain white mug sat in its usual spot beside the kettle. Nia’s mug. She’d tried putting it away once, but it had felt wrong, like erasing proof of something she wasn’t ready to forget.
Steam rose from the coffee as she poured it, the scent sharp and comforting. She took both mugs to the table out of habit, setting one across from her own, as if Nia might come shuffling out of the bedroom, hair mussed, wearing one of Soren’s shirts that would be far too big on her.
Except the chair stayed empty.
Soren sat, elbows on the table, staring at the rising steam. The morning sun hit the edge of the mug and turned it to gold. She smiled faintly, a soft, humorless thing.
“Merry Christmas, Doc,” she said quietly.
The sound of her own voice startled her. She wasn’t used to talking out loud when there was no one to answer.
The radio on the counter was tuned to the local station — a bit of static, a bit of music. Someone cheerful was wishing everyone a safe and blessed holiday, followed byHave Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.Soren let it play while she sipped her coffee, the words soft as snow and somehow unbearable.
She should’ve been used to mornings like this — empty ones.
But this emptiness was different.
The storm had come and gone, and with it, something inside her had shifted. She’d thought she’d learned to live with loss — her mom, her quiet life, all the what-ifs that came with it. But this… losing Nia… it wasn’t the kind of ache you got over by working harder or drinking stronger coffee. It sat in her bones, deep and patient.
She finished her mug and stood, restless, pulling on her boots and jacket. The cold hit her face the moment she opened the door, sharp and honest. She stepped onto the porch, the boards creaking under her weight, and looked out across the lake. The ice shimmered under the morning light, a mirror for a sky so blue it almost hurt.
Everywhere else, Christmas would be laughter and noise — kids with presents, families around tables, fires crackling, dogs at people’s feet. Up here, it was just her and the mountain.
She didn’t mind solitude. She never had. But today, it pressed in from all sides, a weight she couldn’t quite shake.
She picked up the axe from the porch rail and walked to the woodpile, needing something to do, something to burn off the ache. The first swing cut clean through the log. The secondwasn’t as neat. By the third, her arms were trembling, not from effort but from everything she couldn’t say.
“Damn it,” she muttered, setting the axe down and leaning on the handle, breath clouding in front of her.
She thought of Nia’s last email — polite, distant, like they were strangers again.Glad the lodge is warm again. Stay well, Soren.
Soren had read it once, twice, then deleted it before she could reply. What was there to say?
You made a place I didn’t know I needed.
You ruined me for silence.
You made the cold feel warm.
She tipped her head back, eyes on the sky. A hawk circled high above, the only thing moving in all that empty blue.
“Guess that’s it, huh?” she said softly. “Storm’s over.”
The words came out on a breath, carried away by the cold.
After a moment, she smiled again — smaller this time, but real. Not because she felt better, but because she knew she’d survive this too. She always did.
She gathered the chopped wood, stacking it neatly, one log after another, until her hands stopped shaking. Then she went back inside, poured another cup of coffee, and sat at the table again.
The white mug waited across from her. She turned it slightly so the crack in the glaze caught the light, then reached out and ran her thumb along it.
“Looks like it’s just us this year,” she murmured.
