Page 9 of Silent Mountain Man
Threedaysinthiscabin, and I'm seeing everything differently. Myself included.
The generator is running again, but we're conserving power, keeping most lights off, using the woodstove for heat. The radio says the roads might be cleared tomorrow if the weather holds.
Tomorrow. The word sits heavily in my chest.
Gunnar is outside, clearing paths around the cabin. I watch him through the window, the efficient movement of his body as he shovels snow, the steam of his breath in the cold air. I've stopped filling every silence with chatter. Stopped performing for an audience that isn't here.
When he comes back inside, cheeks reddened from cold, I have coffee waiting. He nods his thanks, our fingers brushing as I hand him the mug. These small touches have become frequent, each one sending a current of awareness through me.
"Storm's letting up," I say, looking out at the clearer sky.
He nods, something unreadable crossing his face.
"The plow will probably make it through tomorrow," I continue, trying to keep my voice neutral.
Another nod, his eyes dropping to his coffee.
"I should check my equipment, make sure everything's dry for when I head back." The words feel wrong in my mouth, hollow.
Gunnar reaches for his notebook, writes quickly.
Need help?
"No, but thank you." I hesitate, then add, "I don't have many good shots from this trip. My followers will be disappointed."
He studies me, then writes again.
What about the ones from yesterday?
"Those weren't for them," I admit quietly. "Those were for me."
Something softens in his expression. Understanding, maybe. Or recognition of a truth I'm just beginning to acknowledge.
As evening approaches, the temperature drops dramatically. The weather report on the small radio mentions that Silver Ridge is experiencing record lows, warning residents to stay indoors. The announcer briefly mentions the upcoming Christmas tree lighting ceremony in the town square, scheduled for the weekend if weather permits.
"Weather report says it's going to be the coldest night yet," I say, hugging myself as I come in from checking the thermometer outside. "Fifteen below zero."
Gunnar frowns, concern evident. He adds more wood to the stove, then writes:
Sleep by fire again. Safer.
I nod, already helping to arrange blankets and cushions. We work in tandem now, anticipating each other's movements, passing items without needing to ask. Three days of shared space has created an unexpected synchronicity between us.
Once our sleeping area is prepared, we sit side by side on the floor, backs against the couch, watching the flames. The quiet between us is comfortable, no longer something I feel compelled to fill.
"I've been thinking," I say finally, "about what happens after the roads clear."
Gunnar turns to look at me, waiting.
"I don't want to go back to what I was doing before." The admission surprises me even as I say it. "The constant posting, the performative happiness, the endless cycle of sponsors and content."
He reaches for his notebook.
What do you want?
Such a simple question. So difficult to answer. "Peace, maybe. Space to remember why I started taking pictures in the first place. To see beauty, not just package it."
Like yesterday's photos.
