The days between Christmas Eve and New Year’s shrank like melting ice. Time didn’t rush; it crept. Every hour felt heavier, more deliberate, as though the cabin itself had decided to savor what little remained. No one said the word “last” out loud, but it hung in every room like smoke no one could clear.
Breakfasts grew longer. Dirk started setting an extra place even when someone was missing, just in case. He left small notes on my door each morning—torn scraps of recipe paper with a single line: “Try the cardamom twist tomorrow. It’s better with your laugh in the kitchen.” Or “The shortbread needs sea salt. And you.” I kept every one in a drawer beside my bed, edges curling from my thumbs.
Josh disappeared into the workshop shed for hours. One afternoon he came back with snow on his sh
