Page 8 of Silent Mountain Man
"Can I ask..." She hesitates. "The tattoo on your arm. I noticed it yesterday when you were chopping wood."
I'd forgotten about it, the tribal pattern that wraps around my upper arm. I pull up my sleeve, revealing the black geometric design.
"It's beautiful," she says, studying it. "Does it mean something?"
I nod, writing again.
Protection. Got it before first deployment.
"Did it work?" she asks with half a smile.
I consider this, then write:
I'm still here.
Her eyes meet mine, holding for a long moment. "Yes, you are."
Something changes in the air between us, a current of awareness. I'm conscious of how close we're sitting, of the firelight playing across her features, of the way her hair falls over one shoulder.
The cold pushes us closer to the fire as night deepens. Like the previous night, we arrange blankets on the floor, creating a shared space of warmth. This time, there's less pretense of distance.
"Gunnar," she says as we settle in, her voice soft in the near-darkness. "Do you ever speak? At all?"
I reach for the notebook, writing by firelight.
Sometimes. When it matters.
She reads it, then looks up at me. "What matters enough?"
I stare into the flames, considering. Finally, I write:
Truth. Pain. Things that need voice.
"Not everyday things?"
I shake my head.
"Not even 'pass the salt' or 'good morning'?"
A small smile tugs at my mouth as I write:
Salt is right there. Morning speaks for itself.
She laughs softly, the sound warming me more than the fire. "Fair enough."
We fall silent, the crackling fire the only sound. Dawn's eyes are heavy, her body gradually relaxing beside mine. As she drifts toward sleep, she murmurs, "I like the quiet now. Didn't think I would."
The admission strikes deeper than she knows. I watch her face in the flickering light, the gentle curve of her cheek, the fan of her lashes against her skin. Three days ago, she was a stranger,an unwelcome intrusion. Now, her presence beside me feels right, as though she belongs in this quiet space I've created.
Her hand rests on the blanket between us, palm up and relaxed in sleep. After a long moment of hesitation, I cover it with my own, my callused fingers wrapping around her smaller ones. She doesn't wake, but her fingers curl slightly around mine, holding on.
Seventy-nine words today. Each one a small step from silence toward something else. Something I hadn't planned on finding in the midst of the worst storm in a decade.
Not quite peace. Not quite happiness. But possibility.
five
Dawn
