I cross the room and lower myself into the chair where she liked to curl up. My knees crack louder than usual. The fire pops as if in response, and for a second, I imagine her still here. Her knees pulled up under her. Her smile soft and tired. Her voice asking what I’m thinking.
She made this place feel different, less like a bunker. More like a home.
I lean forward, elbows on my thighs, hands knotted together. That’s when I see it. A folded piece of paper, half tucked under the blanket in the bench cubby by the door.
I pull it out, blinking at the handwriting. It’s not Claire’s.
It’s not mine, either.
I open the note and scan the words. They hit like a hammer to the sternum.
Thank you for everything. For the quiet. For reminding me what it feels like to be seen. I’ll never forget this place, or you.
My mouth pulls into a grimace, not at the sentiment, but at the timing. Claire must’ve found it and thought it was for me.
It’s from years ago. Cal, another wilderness guide, brought someone here when I was away on business. She was running from something and needed stillness. I remember him telling me about her, about how they only spent one weekend talking and drinking cocoa and not touching each other at all. I remember him saying she was the first person who didn’t want anything from him but company. He kept the note like a souvenir from a life he didn’t get to live.
Claire thought it was mine.
She thought I’d rescued someone before. Held them. Let them think they mattered, and probably gotten physical in the sameways we did. What wrecks me is that she believed I’d give her something that wasn’t real.
The pain is almost impressive in its precision.
I stand, aimless, and pace the cabin. My heart cracks a little, seeing the tiny red camera ornament where she left it on the table. I carved a heart into the lens. I don’t know if she meant to leave it or if it slipped from her bag. I hang it front and center on the Christmas tree. It stands out, the solitary ornament among the baubles, as alone as I feel.
There’s a knock, and the front door creaks open behind me. Cal steps in, stamping snow from his boots. “Did you get my text? The crews worked all night and the roads have been passable since before dawn.”
I look up, the note still in my hand. My jaw works against the words I don’t want to say.
“She’s gone.”
Cal’s face shifts. His eyes dart to the note in my hand, then back to me. “What happened?”
I hand him the note. His brow furrows as he reads, then his mouth thins in understanding.
"Shit." Cal folds the note, tucks it in his pocket. "This is from Mina. Five years ago, remember? That winter I let her stay here when you were in Denver for the guide certification course."
"I know it's yours." My jaw aches from clenching. "But Claire doesn't."
"Mina was running from an abusive ex. Needed somewhere quiet, somewhere safe. I never…" He runs a hand through his beard. "Never touched her. She left this note when she went back to Boston. I kept it because it meant something, that I'd helped someone. I couldn’t find it when I got home, and then I forgot about it."
"Claire saw it. She thinks I've done this before. Rescue women, bring them here, let them think they're special." The words taste like ash.
"But you haven't." Cal's voice is firm. "In five years, you've never brought anyone here. Not clients, not friends, not women. Just her."
"She doesn't know that."
"Then tell her." Cal grips my shoulder. "Look, that note? Mina’s therapist convinced her to leave that ex, start over. She's married now. Two kids. Happy. But that's my story, not yours." His words shake me. "Claire's your story. And if she were mine? I wouldn't waste a single second standing here talking to me."
The words grip me. He's right.
"Where would she go?" he asks.
"Into town. The Christmas market. Where else?"
Cal's already moving toward the door. "Go get your woman, Jax. Bring her home."
I’m on my feet before I think it through, grabbing my coat and the keys. The sky is pale and flat outside, clouds holding back another storm. I slam the truck door shut and throw it into gear, tires crunching over the snow. The road twists down the mountain, slick in places, familiar in others. I drive faster than I should, but not reckless. Not now.
