Chapter 7
The soft crackle of the fire was the only sound in the cabin as I stretched, rubbing a hand over my face. The faint glow of early dawn seeped through the windows, casting the room in a muted haze.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, bare feet hitting the cool floorboards, and crossed the room out to the living area.
I added a couple of logs and poked at the embers until the flames jumped back to life.
Warmth spread slowly through the space as I stood there, staring into the fire, letting my thoughts drift.
I’d been back from Kyle’s for a few days now.
The trip had been last minute–he needed help, and I went without thinking, like I always did.
It was our unspoken routine. Twice a month, every month for the past year, I’d drive the few hours out to see him.
Stay two, maybe three days. Help where I could.
Try to ease the guilt gnawing at my insides.
The visits were hard. Seeing him–seeing what I’d done–never got easier. Which was probably why, the second I came home, I usually threw myself into work or back onto the ice. Moving kept the thoughts at bay. This time though? I hadn’t done any of that.
The weight hit me as soon as I was in the truck heading home, and it hadn’t let up since. And with every hour that passed in this house, the silence pressed harder on my chest.
I hadn’t been back to the rink since I got back, I hadn’t even left the house.
Shane kept calling, but I ignored the buzzing phone.
He’d hear my voice and know right away that I was slipping.
I didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want to admit that I was struggling, that I’d slipped into that familiar numbness again.
Depression didn’t always crash in like a storm. Sometimes it was quieter–like fog creeping in under the doorframe. You didn’t even realize how deep you were until everything felt too heavy. Too loud. Too still.
I was stuck in the cycle again–sleeping too much and never feeling rested, staring at half-finished projects, skipping meals, skipping life. Everything that once gave me purpose felt distant. Blurred.
The silence here that usually felt so peaceful, was suffocating. Every creak of the floorboards, every tick of the clock, echoed like a reminder that I was alone. That I deserved to be.
I tried to shake the thoughts loose, but they clung like wet clothes.
Eventually, I forced myself into motion, grabbing my old Boston College sweatshirt off the couch and padded into the kitchen, pulling it on, the sleeves soft and frayed from years of wear. I didn’t bother with the lights. I liked the dimness–the way it blurred the sharp edges of everything.
As the coffee brewed, I stood by the window, watching the snow blanket the pines.
My cabin sat just outside of town–far enough for solitude, close enough to catch the faint hum of passing cars if the wind blew right.
The place wasn’t big–a single-story home with creaky floors and furniture I’d either built myself or picked up from garage sales and fixer-uppers.
The walls were wood-paneled, stained a warm honey brown.
They still held the faint scent of pine, smoke, and something that always reminded me of winter mornings.
The stone fireplace took up nearly one whole wall, its mantle cluttered with old hockey pucks, worn paperbacks, and a couple framed photos of happier times. A thick wool blanket was tossed over the back of the couch, and a stack of firewood was always kept by the hearth, just in case.
My favourite part of the house was still the wide window that looked out toward the woods.
Floor to ceiling, spanning nearly the entire back wall.
In the summer, the view stretched into a mess of green–ferns, evergreens, dappled sunlight dancing between the trees.
In winter, like now, it was all soft whites and heavy greys, snow settling on the branches like a weighted hush.
This–this was supposed to be the plan. Keep my head down. Stick to routine. Coach the kids. Fix up houses when needed. Don’t get too close to anyone. Be helpful, not a burden. Present, but never fully seen. That was the balance I struck, and for a while, it worked.
Lately, though, the routine didn’t feel like enough. The space I’d carved out to keep everything neat and contained was starting to feel like a cage.
The thought of venturing out hadn’t even crossed my mind in days. But this morning, something felt… different. Not better. Not lighter. Just… less crushing. Like maybe today, I could take one step forward instead of ten back.
The coffee pot gurgled behind me, pulling me from my thoughts. I poured a mug and took a long sip, letting the heat settle in my chest. It didn’t fix anything–it never did–yet it was something. And right now, something was enough.
Maybe it was the snow, the way it made the world look new again. Or maybe I just couldn’t take another day inside this house with my thoughts clawing at the walls.
Either way, I was leaving the cabin today.
The thought stayed with me as I pulled on a flannel and jeans, laced up my boots, and shrugged into my winter jacket.
The smell of coffee and freshly baked pastries hit me the second I stepped into the bakery.
I rubbed my hands together, shaking the snow off my boots, then unzipped my winter jacket, letting the heat of the room seep through the flannel shirt beneath.
The familiar fabric clung slightly from the cold, though the bakery’s warmth began to thaw the stiffness from my limbs as I glanced around.
Near the counter, an elderly woman struggled to open her wallet, her hands trembling slightly.
“Take your time, Mrs. Gardner,” a soft voice chimed, patient and genuine. “No rush at all.”
I followed the voice to the woman behind the counter. Mrs. Gardner blocked most of my view, but there was a gentleness in the way the barista leaned forward, offering a steadying hand as the older woman finally fished out a crumpled bill.
“You know, I still say you guys should let me pay double,” Mrs. Gardner teased. “Benny’s pastries are too good for what he charges.”
The woman laughed, a light, melodic sound that seemed to brighten the room. “Never, Mrs. Gardner.”
She placed the warm pastry bag carefully in the woman’s hands. “Do you need a hand getting out to your car?”
“You sound just like my granddaughter,” Mrs. Gardner said, a fond smile spreading across her face. “Always worrying about me. I’m fine, dear.”
“That’s because we care,” she replied, her voice tender. “Be careful out there, alright?”
Mrs. Gardner nodded, her steps slow yet steady as she made her way to the door.
And then I saw her.
She stood behind the counter, focused on cleaning the espresso machine.
Blonde hair swept up in a messy bun. The few strands that escaped, framed her face in a way that made her look…
effortless. Tall and slender, she wore a simple cardigan over a fitted pair of jeans, an apron tied snugly around her waist. What stopped me, though, were her eyes–green, bright, and startlingly expressive.
She must have felt me looking because she glanced up. Our eyes met, and for a second, she just stared at me, her gaze lingering on my face before darting quickly down to my shoulders. Flustered, she blinked and straightened, tugging at the apron as if it might somehow shield her.
“Good morning,” she said, her voice soft. “What can I get you?”
For half a second, I forgot how words worked.
“Coffee,” I managed finally, clearing my throat. “Uh, black. And a chocolate croissant, if you’ve got one.”
She gave a small nod and reached for a paper bag. “We’ve got a few left.”
When she turned to pour the coffee, I caught myself studying her–something about the way she moved, careful but unsteady, like she was still finding her rhythm.
“I haven’t seen you here before,” I said, my voice casual. “Are you new?”
She glanced over her shoulder, surprised I was still talking to her. “I just started last week.”
“Ah, that makes sense,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck. “I was starting to wonder if I was losing it. Not recognizing a face around here? That’s rare.”
Her lips tugged into the barest hint of a smile. “Well, you’re not losing it.”
“I’m Ryan,” I offered, unsure why it felt important to say.
She hesitated for a beat. “Harper.”
I noticed the way she rolled up her cardigan sleeves as she fumbled slightly with the lid. There was flour on the hem of her apron and a piece of hair tucked hastily behind her ear, as if she’d been too busy to fix it properly.
She fumbled slightly with the lid and adjusted it with a quiet sigh, still not managing to secure it.
Then, in a blink, something orange streaked past me at ankle height.
“What the–?”
Before I could react, Harper stepped forward, coffee in hand, and her foot caught on whatever had just flown by. Her balance tilted–and so did the cup.
The lid flew off and hot liquid sloshed over the rim, splashing directly onto my flannel.
“Shit,” I hissed, jerking back as the heat hit me square in the chest.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” Harper gasped, eyes wide as she scrambled to grab napkins from the counter. She shoved them at me, then leaned over to blot my shirt with a frantic, flustered kind of urgency.
I tried not to notice how her cardigan pulled just slightly against her chest. It wasn’t intentional, not even close, but that didn’t stop my brain from going there for half a second.
I cleared my throat and shifted my focus to literally anything else. The last thing I needed was to get caught gawking like some kind of teenage idiot.
“It’s fine,” I said quickly, even though the sting of the coffee was definitely not fine. “Really, it’s–”
“I ruined your shirt,” she mumbled, barely meeting my eyes as she held out another napkin. “And your coffee. Probably your morning.”
I took the napkins and gave her the smallest smile I could manage without grimacing. “I’ve had worse mornings. And worse shirts.”