Page 21 of Daddy of the Mountain

"It's beautiful," I said honestly, looking up at him. There was a flicker of something in his expression—pride, maybe—but it was fleeting.

With the doll resting in my lap, I closed my eyes. The carved wood was smooth under my fingertips, grounding me. My chest rose and fell a little too fast, anticipation curling low in my stomach. I tried to imagine it—letting go, letting everything just… drift. No deadlines, no emails, nothing clawing at the edges of my mind.

"Take your time," Silas said, his voice low, steady. It came from somewhere close, but not too close. He didn’t crowd me, didn’t push. "You don’t have to force it. Just try."

I nodded, swallowing hard. My pulse thudded in my ears. "Okay," I whispered.

"Would you like a story?" he asked after a beat. His voice dipped lower, quieter, like he was afraid to break whatever fragile spell had settled between us.

A story.

The idea hit me harder than it should’ve. My hands tightened around the little wooden figure. My chest felt lighter, somehow. I blinked up at him, surprised by how much I wanted it. "Yeah," I said quickly, then cleared my throat. "I mean, yes. Please."

That earned me another small smile. He shifted, leaning slightly toward the shelf across the room, then stopped, looking back at me like he was checking if I was still okay. Still here. Something about that made my shoulders loosen, the tight knot of tension in my spine easing without me realizing it.

I curled my knees up, pulling the blanket tighter around myself. The doll pressed against my palm, its smooth edges soothing. The fire crackled softly, filling the space between us, and I found my gaze drawn to it—the light, the warmth. The way everything outside this moment seemed to fade into the background.

"Go on," I murmured, barely recognizing my own voice. Softer now. Calmer. A little less me, and yet, maybe more me than I’d been in years.

He lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, far enough that I didn’t feel crowded, close enough that the warmth from him reached me. A book rested in his lap, its cover cracked and discolored, the title worn to near illegibility. My eyes snagged on the faint outline of a rabbit, mid-hop, etched in faded gold. Something about it tugged at me—a memory I couldn’t quite place.

"Used to read this when I was young," Silas said, flipping it open carefully. The pages were yellowed, edges frayed, butthe illustrations inside were surprisingly vivid. "Simple story. Nothing fancy."

"That’s okay," I said quickly. My voice sounded different—smaller. I shifted under the blanket, adjusting my ankle and tucking the doll closer, its smooth curves grounding me. "I… I like simple."

His mouth twitched, a flicker of a smile, and then he started reading.

"Once there was a little rabbit," he began, voice quieter now, steady. Each word wrapped around the room like the soft glow of the firelight. "She lived in a big forest, full of places to hide and play."

I stared at the page, the illustration of the rabbit surrounded by towering trees. The lines were bold but soft, childlike in their simplicity. As he read, his tone shifted slightly, dipping into something warmer, gentler. Like he wasn’t just telling the story—he was pulling me into it.

"She got lost one day," he continued, turning the page slowly. "The forest was dark, and she couldn’t find her way home."

"Did she get scared?" I asked before I could stop myself. My voice sounded strange in my own ears, lighter, curious. I felt my cheeks heat, but Silas didn’t so much as glance up at me.

"Maybe a little," he said calmly, pausing to show me the next illustration—a small rabbit with wide eyes standing among shadowy trees. "But she kept going. She knew someone would help her."

"Someone?"

"Mm-hm." He turned the page again, his movements unhurried. "A fox found her. Not a mean one. A good one. At first, the rabbit was scared. But soon she knew the fox was friendly."

I leaned forward without thinking, drawn to the sketch of a fox with kind eyes guiding the rabbit along a winding path. The firecrackled softly behind me, and the doll felt warm in my hands, like it had absorbed the heat of my body.

"Why’d he help her?" I asked. My voice had softened even more, the question airy, almost dreamy.

"Because she needed him to," Silas replied simply. He glanced at me then, quick but steady, checking in like he always did. "Sometimes folks just need someone else to show ’em the way."

He turned another page, his deep voice weaving through the air, steady and sure. The rabbit followed the fox through the forest, step by step, until—

"Look," he said, tilting the book toward me. His finger tapped the corner of the page, where a tiny cabin sat nestled among the trees. Smoke curled from its chimney, and the rabbit stood just outside, staring up at it. "Home."

My chest tightened, but not in a bad way. I smiled faintly, leaning closer without meaning to. "She made it."

"She did," Silas said, his voice softer now. He paused, letting the moment settle, and I realized how quiet everything had become—the world outside reduced to nothing but the hum of his words and the crackle of the fire.

"Was she happy?" I asked, barely above a whisper.

"Yeah," he said after a beat. "She was safe. That’s what mattered."

---