Page 2 of Silent Mountain Man
Nothing. Not even a glance.
"Anyway, the storm wasn't supposed to hit until tomorrow. That's what the forecast said."
Still working at the stove, back to me, no acknowledgment.
I'm used to talking, filling space with words. My job is connection. I like reaching through screens to make strangers feel like friends. But here, my words seem to evaporate into the wooden beams above us, leaving no impression.
The silence is heavy.
As night falls, Gunnar gestures to a small couch pushed against one wall. He disappears into the bedroom, returning with a pillow and blanket that he sets down without meeting my eyes.
"Thank you," I say again, because what else can I say?
He nods once, then disappears into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.
I curl up on the couch, wrapping myself in the blanket that smells of pine and woodsmoke. Outside, the wind howls against the windows, snow piling higher by the minute.
Three days with a man who doesn't speak, in a cabin barely big enough for one person.
I check my phone—no signal, of course and this cabin doesn’t have wifi by the looks of it. No way to update my followers that Dawn Sylvester, queen of oversharing, has vanished into the wilderness. No way to craft the perfect caption for this utterly un-curated moment.
Just me, a silent mountain man, and a storm with no end in sight.
two
Gunnar
Iknewsomeonewasoutside before the knock came.
The woods speak to those who listen—a different rhythm when something disturbs their peace. Today it was footsteps, too light for a deer, too heavy for a fox. Human.
It's been two years, four months, and sixteen days since another person stood in this cabin. Now there's a woman on my couch, her bright yellow jacket hanging by my door, her expensive camera on my table.
Dawn. A fitting name for someone so colorful in my grayscale world.
She's finally quiet, asleep on the couch I never use. It took hours. Every silence I cultivated, she filled—words pouring out like she'd drown without them. Stories about her "followers," whatever that means. Complaints about the cold. Questions I answered on paper because my throat closes when I try to form words that don't matter.
The doctors called it selective mutism, a psychological response to trauma. "It will pass," they said. It didn't. After the IED, after watching my team disappear in fire and smoke, words became sharp things in my throat. Unnecessary things.
So I left. Found this place where silence is the natural state, where no one expects explanations.
Until now.
Through the bedroom wall, I hear her shift on the couch, murmuring something in her sleep. God, she even talks when shes asleep. She doesn't belong here with her delicate hands and city clothes, with her constant need to document and share.
Three days of this. Her talking. Me not answering.
I should be more annoyed than I am.
The truth is, the sound of another human voice in this cabin isn't as jarring as I expected. Her voice has a rhythm to it, rising and falling like the creek behind the cabin in spring.
I run my fingers over the notebook on my bedside table. Twenty-three words today, more than I've written to another person in months. Not that I had much choice.
Storm warning. Roads closed. Radio says 3 days. Dangerous. Stay. Gunnar.
My name looks strange written down. She repeated it when I showed her, like she was tasting it. "Gunnar," she said, and for a moment, I remembered who I was before. Lieutenant Gunnar Robertson, communications specialist. The irony isn't lost on me.
I close my eyes, but sleep doesn't come. The storm rattles the windows, a familiar sound that usually lulls me to sleep. Tonight, I'm listening for something else—the soft breathing of the woman on my couch, the occasional rustle as she turns.
