The snow fell the same way it had the year before—thick, silent, relentless—blanketing the mountain in white hush. The cabin looked unchanged from the road: same dark timber, same wide windows glowing gold against the dusk, same porch where ten pairs of boots had once stood in a line watching a car disappear down the bend.
But inside, everything was different.
And the same.
I stepped through the door just as the last light bled from the sky. The smell hit first—pine, woodsmoke, cardamom, and the faint metallic edge of anticipation. Then the warmth. Then the sound of voices—low laughter, overlapping, familiar in a way that made my chest ache.
They were already there.
All ten.
Gathered around the same long table, same mismatched chairs, same tree in the corner strung with the same ligh
