Outside, the sky was turning that blue-gray, which promised more snow. The kind that makes the world go quiet.
I wrapped myself in a blanket, curled up on the couch, and told myself I’ll write something tomorrow. A list, maybe. A poem. A grocery plan that doesn’t involve marshmallows as a major food group.
Maybe not a grocery list… the friend-of-a-friend must have gotten wind of mypatheticsituation. The one-room cottage was stocked with enough food to feed a family of six for several weeks.
So tonight, I’m just here.
Bare legs tucked under me, cocoa gone cold, a single bow still stuck in my hair.
The music cut out halfway through a song.
For a second, the cabin felt too quiet — like the air was waiting for me to admit something.
I stared at my phone on the counter. It’s face-down, but I couldsee the faint light of a notification leaking through the case. Probably another “thinking of you this holiday” text from someone who still hasn’t deleted the engagement photos.
I should’ve deleted them, too. But I didn’t. They live somewhere in the cloud, along with all my good intentions and unread emails.
I flipped the phone over. The lock screen is still a picture from last winter — me and him on the ice rink, both of us laughing, the ring glittering like it actually meant something.
It hits like a bruise I forgot I had.
For a second, I let myself feel it — the weight of all the plans that won’t happen, the quiet he left behind.
Then I took a deep breath, shoved the phone up against the window and said, “Nope.”
Out loud.
To no one.
I snapped the laziest picture of the snow-covered trees and quickly updated my background to match. Oncehis facewas off my screen, I tossed it aside.
Because if heartbreak was going to live rent-free in my brain, it could at least help untangle this damn garland.
I cranked the radio back up, dug my fingers into the tangled lights, and started humming along. Louder than necessary. Louder than the ache.
It’s easier to sparkle than to sit still.
So I do.
I danced barefoot on the creaky floorboards, sweatshirt sliding off one shoulder, hair falling from its bun, singing likemaybeI could drown the sadness out with tinsel and bad rhythm.
And when the door opened behind me — cold air spilling in, boots stamping snow across my temporary peace — I didn’t even hear it at first.
CHAPTER 2
Silas
The cottage looked smallerthan I remembered.
Which, of course, was impossible — I’d never actually been here before. But something about it still felt familiar in that bone-deep, unwelcome way that reminded me of every other “quiet place to work” I’d ever rented. Same weathered wood. Same promise of peace. Same inevitable disappointment.
The words didn’t come to me like they had a decade ago. Nothing I wrotestuck. Editors and agents wanted nothing to do with the messy jumble of nothing that I turned in.
I stood at the edge of the porch, hands shoved into my coat pockets, trying to decide if the snow falling in fat, lazy flakes was beautiful or just another obstacle.
Probably both.
The car ride from the city had been long enough for me to catalog every failure that had brought me here. Three years since my last book — a failure. Two since my last agent — gently let go. It was all downhill when the polite emails had stopped and the pitying ones began.
