Chapter 10
SOREN
The plows came early.
By the time the sun had climbed over the ridge, the sound of their heavy engines had replaced the quiet sigh of melting snow. The world outside the lodge glittered—wet roads cutting through drifts, icicles breaking loose from the eaves in slow, steady drops.
Soren stood on the porch with a shovel in hand, pretending to help Ellis clear the steps though most of the work was already done. The old man hummed something under his breath, cheerful now that the storm had passed.
“Feels good to see pavement again,” he said, leaning on his shovel. “Town’ll be busy by noon. Folks’ll come up from the valley just to see the snow.”
Soren smiled faintly. “Guess the mountain’s back to being pretty again.”
Ellis chuckled. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Soren didn’t answer. She was watching the parking area where a line of cars idled, engines humming, exhaust curling into the cold morning air. Guests loading luggage, hugging, laughing—the usual post-storm ritual of relief.
And then she saw her.
Nia stood by her rental, sleek coat buttoned, hair pinned up again, professional polish restored as if the last few days had been nothing but a pause between surgeries. She looked exactly like she should: composed, capable, untouchable.
But then Nia turned her head toward the lodge, and for the briefest second, Soren swore their eyes met across the distance. The moment was tiny, but it landed like a heartbeat she couldn’t ignore.
Nia hesitated—just long enough for Soren to wonder if she’d change her mind—then lifted one gloved hand, a small, tentative wave that was almost nothing at all.
Soren didn’t wave back.
She couldn’t.
She just stood there, shovel in hand, watching as Nia slid into the driver’s seat, as the car reversed, as the tires bit into the slush and joined the line crawling down the mountain road.
The taillights glowed red for a few seconds. Then they were gone, swallowed by the glare of the sun on snow.
Ellis wiped his brow with his sleeve. “There goes the last of ’em. Guess we’ll have peace again.”
Soren stared at the empty road. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Peace.”
The word tasted like ash.
She set the shovel down, gloves hanging from one hand, and leaned against the porch railing. The view was beautiful—clear sky, sunlight skipping over the lake, everything sparkling like the world had been remade overnight.
It should have felt like relief. Instead, it felt like a door closing.
The cold bit at her fingers, but she didn’t move. She kept her eyes on the road long after the sound of engines faded, listening to the drip-drip-drip of melting ice, to the steady, patient rhythm of a world moving on.
Only when the silence grew heavy again did she whisper it, almost to herself.
“Safe travels, Doc.”
Her breath turned to mist in the air and vanished.
By afternoon, Hawthorne Lake had thawed into a different kind of quiet. The storm was over, the roads open, the guests gone. Even the lodge felt hollow without the hum of voices, the shuffle of boots, the faint clink of coffee cups that had filled the last few days.
Soren stayed to help Ellis patch a loose shutter before driving down into town. The sunlight was sharp off the snow, dazzling, and the air smelled of pine and woodsmoke. Everything was supposed to feel normal again.
But it didn’t.
Her truck bounced along the slush-slick road, radio crackling with static between songs. She turned it off halfway down the mountain. The silence was better than the reminder that the world had kept turning while she’d been frozen in place.
Her workshop sat at the edge of town, a low building with a metal roof and a sign so faded it was barely legible: Stevenson Repairs – No Problem Too Small. The space greeted her with familiar smells—sawdust, oil, cold metal—but even that comfort felt thin.
She hung her jacket on the hook, plugged in the kettle, and stared at the scattered tools on her workbench. Normally she’d dive right in, lose herself in fixing something. A heater. A pipe. A broken hinge. There was always something to mend.
Today, she couldn’t focus.
She picked up a wrench, turned it in her hand, then set it down again. Her eyes fell on the old thermos she kept on the counter—two mugs beside it. One was hers. The other wasn’t.
The mug had been left behind at the lodge that morning, sitting by the sink. Plain white, chipped at the rim, the faint scent of Nia’s coffee still clinging to it. Ellis had set it aside for her.
“Guess the Doc forgot this,” he’d said. “You know where to send it?”
Soren had just nodded, pretending it didn’t matter. She’d slipped the mug into her bag without a word.
Now it sat on her workbench, too small and too clean among the clutter of tools.
She picked it up, running her thumb over the crack in the glaze.
She could mail it. She should mail it. Phoenix Ridge Hospital wasn’t hard to find. She could even picture the envelope—neat handwriting, maybe a note tucked inside: You forgot this.
But that wasn’t what she wanted to say.
What she wanted to write was: I can’t stop thinking about you.
What she wanted to ask was: Did you mean it when you said it wasn’t a mistake?
What she wanted to tell her was: I don’t want to forget you.
Instead, she just set the mug back down, careful not to chip it further.
Outside, the wind stirred, carrying faint music from the café across the street—something cheerful, careless. A couple of kids skated on the frozen edge of the lake, their laughter echoing up through the still air.
Soren leaned against the workbench, crossing her arms, staring at nothing.
She’d been alone plenty of times before. Hell, she preferred it most days. But this—this wasn’t solitude. This was absence.
She missed the way Nia’s laugh had sounded against her shoulder. The way her green eyes had softened when she finally stopped pretending she wasn’t afraid.
Soren sighed and reached for her phone, thumb hovering over the screen. Her contacts were mostly locals, suppliers, the lodge, Ellis. No Nia.
Of course not. They’d never exchanged numbers. That was supposed to make it easier.
It didn’t.
The kettle clicked off behind her, the hiss of steam breaking the silence. She poured herself a cup and took a sip, too hot, too bitter.
The mug sat beside her, still chipped, still whole.
She stared at it for a long time and whispered, “Guess you’re staying a while.”
Outside, the snow kept melting.
Inside, nothing was fixing itself.
Evening came fast in the mountains that time of year. By five, the sky had turned violet, the lake glazed in gold and shadow. Soren shut up the workshop early, the stillness too loud, the air too heavy.
She carried the white mug home with her, tucked into the cab of her truck like it was something fragile. She told herself it was so she wouldn’t forget to wrap it for shipping. But she knew better.
Her cabin sat near the treeline above town, smoke curling lazily from the chimney. Inside, it was warm and familiar—the same stack of books, the same wool blanket thrown over the couch, the same half-finished shelf project leaning against the wall. Nothing had changed.
She tossed her keys onto the counter, poured herself a beer, and collapsed into the armchair. The room was too quiet. She turned on the small radio for company; it caught a local station halfway through a news bulletin about the storm cleanup.
“...air travel resumed. Hospitals reporting a backlog of postponed procedures…”
The mention of air travel and hospitals made her chest ache.
She took a long drink, staring at the mug on the table.
It was ridiculous, but she imagined her initials scrawled beside Nia’s neat, printed name on one of those surgical scrub tags.
Dr. South. The kind of woman who fixed people from the inside out.
The kind who didn’t look twice at small-town carpenters with calloused hands.
And yet, for a handful of nights, she had.
Soren leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and reached for her phone. She scrolled aimlessly—emails, voicemails, weather updates—until one new message blinked onto the screen.
Unknown number.
Subject line: Thank you.
Her pulse jumped. She opened it.
Hi Soren,
I made it back to Phoenix Ridge this afternoon. The roads were clear by the time we reached the valley. The hospital already has me back in the schedule—some things never change.
I just wanted to thank you—for everything you did during the storm, and for... everything else. You made a difficult week something I’ll remember for more reasons than I expected. I hope the lodge got its heat fully working again. Stay warm up there.
—Nia
That was all. No number. No invitation. No promise. Just enough to make her chest ache and her mouth curve in a soft, helpless smile.
Soren read it twice, thumb tracing the screen like she could touch the voice in those words. Then she hit reply before she could overthink it.
Hey Doc,
Glad you made it back in one piece. Boiler’s fixed, heat’s good, but it’s quieter here now. Guess that’s how it goes when the storm passes.
Take care of yourself.
—Soren
She hovered over “Send.” For a second, she thought about adding more—You forgot your mug, or I miss you already, or Come back sometime.
But instead, she sent it just as it was. Simple. Bare. Honest enough.
The message whooshed away into the digital ether. She exhaled slowly and leaned back, the beer still cold in her hand. Outside, the last light faded from the sky, stars pricking through the thin haze above the peaks.
Soren turned off the radio, letting the silence return.
The loneliness was still there—but now, threaded through it, was something else. Something light. Something like possibility.
She glanced at the mug again, sitting quietly on the table, gleaming faintly in the starlight.
“See, Doc,” she murmured, half smiling, “you’re still here.”
And somehow, that felt like the beginning of something, not the end.