Chapter 2 #2
I wander over to the window, pressing my face against the cold glass.
The world outside is a furious white blur. It really is bad. My car is definitely gone for the foreseeable future.
A strange mix of relief and anxiety washes over me. Relief that I’m safe, anxiety that I’m stuck here with the human equivalent of a walking, talking thunderstorm.
I turn back to Edward, who is now staring into the fire, his profile silhouetted against the flames. He looks like something out of a rugged adventurer movie, all darkness and brooding intensity. And completely alone.
“Mind if I just… settle in?” I ask, gesturing vaguely at the small cabin.
From where I'm standing though, I can see there’s no spare bedroom, no couch. Definitely no guest towels with cute little soaps set out on top.
He waves a dismissive hand. “There’s a fold-out in the corner. Sleeping bag in the chest by the door.”
He doesn’t even look at me as I retrieve the sleeping bag, grateful for the small acts of service, however reluctantly offered. The foldout bed is functional, just like everything else around here.
I unfold it, making a mental note to appreciate every step of this unexpected adventure. This is my inspiration. My grand, dramatic, spend-the-night-with-a-grumpy-man inspiration.
After securing my makeshift bed, I sit on it, pulling my legs up to my chest.
The warmth of the fire is slowly seeping into me, thawing the last of the terror. Now, only the awkwardness remains.
And the curiosity.
Oh, the burning, insatiable curiosity.
I watch Edward for a long time, trying to decipher the man behind the grunts, the mumbled few words, and the harsh glares.
He’s looking at the fire with an intensity that seems to go beyond simply watching flames. He’s seeing something else, something in the dancing light that troubles him.
I decide to switch strategies. If he won't talk, I'll explore.
My eyes linger on a sturdy wooden workbench in the corner, covered in wood carvings in various stages of completion. And then, in the corner, a stack of old sketchbooks, tucked away under the bench, as if they've been hidden from view.
My artistic radar goes off like a siren.
This is it. This is the something I'm looking for.
“What’s that?” I ask, my voice a little too eager, as I push myself off the bed and walk towards the workbench.
Edward stiffens. “Nothing.”
“Looks like something,” I counter, already reaching for the stack.
“I said don’t touch anything, Penny,” he growls, his voice a low warning.
He’s behind me in an instant, his presence overwhelming. The heat radiating off his body is sudden, potent, and utterly distracting.
I hesitate, my fingers hovering over the worn covers of the sketchbooks. The tension in the air is suddenly electric.
“Are these… your drawings?” I ask, my voice a whisper.
The risk of irritating him further is high, but the pull of discovering another artist’s work is stronger. It’s an unspoken code, a sacred trust.
He lets out a frustrated sigh, but doesn’t move to stop me.
My fingers trace the faded cover of the top book, then I carefully open it.
And my breath hitches.
It’s a charcoal drawing, completely raw in it's beauty.
A twisted, gnarled tree, its branches reaching like skeletal fingers towards a turbulent sky. The detail is incredible, the emotion palpable. It’s dark, moody, violent even… not my usual style.
But still, it's undeniably beautiful.
“Edward,” I breathe, turning another page.
This one depicts a wolf standing alone, its gaze piercing, its posture wary and protective, set against a backdrop of craggy, unforgiving peaks.
Another turn of the book, and this time I'm staring in awe at a soldier, his face shadowed, his eyes haunted, dissolving into a swirl of smoke.
These aren't just sketches. These are fragments of a soul. His soul.
My fingers tremble as I turn page after page.
They’re all like this—dark, powerful, full of a raw, almost agonizing emotion. Landscapes that weep, animals that snarl, figures that dissolve into shadow and pain.
They depict the very essence of what this lonely man feels but cannot say.
“These are… incredible,” I finally say, my voice thick with sheer surprise. “They’re… you’re an artist, Edward.”
He says nothing, simply standing behind me, his silence a heavy weight. I can feel his gaze boring into the back of my head, probably expecting me to mock him, to trivialize his pain.
But I can’t. I simply can’t.
I turn, still holding the open sketchbook. His face is unreadable, but there’s a vulnerability in his eyes now, a flicker that wasn’t there before.
The soldier from the drawing. That's him.
“Edward,” I repeat, my voice soft. “I mean it. These are truly amazing. The emotion… the detail… it’s breathtaking. You're an inspiration.”
He looks away, clearing his throat. “They’re just… something to pass the time.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head firmly. “No, they’re not ‘just something.’ This is real art. This is profound. This is what I came up here to find.”
My eyes ignite with a newfound purpose, a genuine fire that finally breaks through his defenses.
“It’s all here. The raw wilderness, the struggle, the… the grief. It’s all here, in your work.”
I see a tremor in his hand, and this time, he doesn’t deny it.
He doesn’t growl. He just… stands there, letting me see him, truly see him, through the lens of his art.
He finally meets my gaze, and for the first time since I stepped into this cabin, the hard mask of indifference cracks.
A raw, vulnerable emotion flashes in his eyes. A look of surprise, and perhaps, a tiny, fragile spark of… appreciation.