To the house we returned soaked, breathless, starving, and utterly content.
Snow clung to our sleeves and scarves, our boots tracked melting footprints across the wooden floor, and our cheeks glowed from cold and laughter. The scent hit us the moment we stepped inside - roasted meat and rosemary, the thick comfort of potatoes cooked long and slow in their own broth. Arthur, beaming with satisfaction, pulled a steaming tray from the fire stove like a magician unveiling a trick.
“Voila,” he said. “Lunch is served.”
We devoured it, talking and making plans for the rest of the day.
Afterwards, the house grew hushed. One by one, our friends drifted off: Hannah and Maria to the pink bunk bed room, Arthur sprawled across a couch in the living room with his hat over his face, Max and August di
