I shouldn’t care. Idon’tcare.
But long after I’ve returned to my own cabin, stripped off my boots, and turned off the lights…
I’m still thinking about her porch light stuttering in the dark.
And the uncomfortable truth pulsing under it:
She shouldn’t matter at all.
So why does it feel like she already does?
Chapter Six
Ava
I can always tell when a storm is going to be bad.
Not from the weather alerts, or Tom’s ranger reports, or even the green-black color the clouds get when they’re ready to dump a foot of snow on us in an hour.
No.
I can tell because the cabin walls start… talking.
Not literally, thank God, because I’d have bigger problems than my heating bill. But the wood pops and groans like an old man waking from a nap, and the floorboards sigh in that resigned, “welp, here we go again,” way that only buildings in mountain towns ever truly master.
This morning, the cabin is practically holding a full conversation.
By noon, the wind has picked up to a roar. By two, the snow is coming down sideways, thick enough to erase the world beyond my front porch. By three, the power grid is groaning under the strain of the entire town cranking their heaters up to “volcanic.”
Violet and I spend the afternoon in a sort of cozy chaos—she’s doing homework at the kitchen table, and I’m trying to get ahead on meal prepping so I won’t have to cook if the power goes out. Again.
I’ve just managed to coax our toaster into not burning the bread when a loud, echoing bang shakes the window.
“What was that?” Violet asks, eyes snapping up.
“Probably a tree branch,” I lie.
Ten seconds later my phone buzzes with a town alert.
Lodge maintenance update: Pipe burst on east side. Temporary closures. Water pressure fluctuating. Electric load unstable. Please conserve power if possible.
I drag my hands down my face. “Great.”
Violet raises a brow. “Want me to tell the power grid to breathe through its feelings?”
“Tell it to meditate. Manifest stability.”
She snorts. “Maybe write affirmations.”
Before I can add a sarcastic follow-up, the heater makes a noise I only ever hear in horror movies—like a dying mechanical whale—and then blows out a puff of sad, cold air.
The vents go quiet.
Too quiet.
“Oh no,” I whisper. “Oh, absolutely not. You are not doing this to me right now.”
I kneel beside the unit, checking breakers, switches, anything that looks like it might be persuaded with love or threats. Nothing. The heat is dead. Fully. Completely. Beyond resuscitation.
