I prepared that night the way someone builds an invisible refuge, made not of walls, but of intention. Every gesture carried a silent purpose: to push the world away, to quiet the outside noise, to remind Alice that there—by my side—time obeyed a different rhythm. A slower one. A safer one. Ours.
The cabin was warm when she stepped inside, the low light casting soft shadows across the wooden walls. The fire crackled steadily in the fireplace, creating an almost hypnotic sound. There was no music, because I wanted the silence to be filled only by us—by the brush of footsteps, by breathing, by presence.
Alice paused for a moment at the doorway, taking in the space as if trying to understand what I had done. Fatigue still lingered in her features, but there was something else in her eyes—a
