FINN
We don’t talk about the radio announcement.
By unspoken agreement, we pretend the roads aren’t clearing. Pretend we have all the time in the world. Pretend the real world isn’t waiting just beyond the snow-covered mountains, ready to pull us apart.
It’s a lie we both need.
Marcella stands at my kitchen counter, flour dusting her cheeks, trying to teach me her grandmother’s bread recipe. Her hands move with practiced confidence as she kneads the dough, folding and pressing and turning in a rhythm that looks almost meditative.
“The key is not overworking it,” she explains, glancing up at me. “You want to develop the gluten, but if you go too far, the bread gets tough. It’s about finding the sweet spot.”
I nod like I understand, but mostly I’m watching her. The way her hair has escaped its messy bun. The flour handprint she accidentally left on her hip. The small smile playing at the corners of her mouth, like she knows I’m not really paying attention to the bread.
“Your turn.” She steps back, gesturing at the dough. “Show me what you’ve learned.”
I approach the counter warily. My hands are made for carving wood, wielding tools, building things that last. Bread dough seems impossibly fragile by comparison.
“Just push and fold,” Marcella encourages. “Don’t overthink it.”
I press my palms into the soft mass and immediately know I’m doing it wrong. Too much pressure. Too aggressive. The dough squishes rather than folds.
Marcella laughs—not mocking, just delighted—and moves to stand beside me. Her hand covers mine, guiding my movements.
“Gentler,” she murmurs. “Like this.”
Her fingers are warm against my knuckles. I can smell her shampoo, something floral and soft that’s become achingly familiar over the past three days. If I turned my head, I could kiss her temple.
I don’t turn my head. I focus on the bread.
“Better,” she says after a moment. “You’re a quick learner.”
“Good teacher.”
She beams at me, and something in my chest cracks open a little wider.
The bread riseswhile we move to the living room.
I’ve been working on a small carving—a practice piece, nothing important—and Marcella asked to try. Now she sits cross-legged on my couch, tongue poking out in concentration as she attempts to shape a chunk of pine into something recognizable. The wood shavings collect on her lap, pale curls against the dark fabric of her jeans.
“Hold the knife at an angle,” I tell her, adjusting her grip. My fingers brush against hers, and even this small contact sends warmth through me. “Let the blade do the work. You’re not forcing it—you’re guiding it.”
“Easy for you to say.” She makes another careful cut, and a small curl of wood falls away. “Your hands know what they’re doing. Mine feel like they’re wearing oven mitts.”
“Yours will too. Just takes practice.” I settle onto the couch beside her, close enough that our shoulders touch. “The wood will tell you where it wants to go. You just have to listen.”
She snorts. “Very mystical. Very mountain man of you.”
“I’m serious. Every piece is different. The grain, the density, the knots. You work with what’s there instead of forcing your vision onto it.”
She looks up at me, something soft in her expression. “You’re a good teacher too, you know. Patient.”
I don’t know how to respond to that, so I just watch her work. Her movements are clumsy but determined. She’s not going toproduce anything beautiful today—probably not for months, if she keeps at it—but there’s something precious about seeing her try. About watching someone engage with my craft, even imperfectly.
I try to imagine this as our life. Evenings by the fire, her carving while I work on commissions. Mornings in the kitchen, learning each other’s recipes. The ranger station filled with her laughter, her warmth, her presence.
The image is so vivid it hurts.
“What are you thinking about?”
