Page 5 of Silent Mountain Man
All without words. Well, without his words. I still talk, but less than yesterday. Less than I normally would.
"So that's your camera?" I ask, pointing to the professional-grade equipment on a shelf I hadn't noticed before. It's dusty, unused.
Gunnar glances up from the book he's reading, then nods.
"You're a photographer too?" I can't keep the surprise from my voice.
He shrugs, then gets up, reaching for the camera. He hands it to me, along with a battered leather portfolio I hadn't noticed.
Inside are photographs that make my breath catch. Black and white landscapes, mostly—mountains in all seasons, dramatic skies, closeups of frost patterns and water droplets on spiderwebs. No people. No posed shots. Just raw nature, captured with an eye that sees what others miss.
"These are incredible," I whisper, turning pages reverently. "You have a gift."
He shakes his head, but I catch the hint of pride in his eyes.
"No, really. I have half a million followers, and I've never captured anything this..." I search for the word. "Authentic."
Gunnar watches me, his expression unreadable. Then he reaches for his notebook.
Why take pictures if not to show the truth?
The question hits me like a physical blow. Why indeed? When was the last time I showed the truth on my feeds? The real Dawn, not the curated version?
"It's not that simple," I try to explain. "People don't want the truth. They want beauty, aspiration. They want—"
Lies?
"No!" I protest, but it feels hollow. "Not lies. Just... the best version."
He studies me, then writes again.
What's your best version?
I laugh uncomfortably. "The one that pays the bills."
But the question lingers as the day progresses. What is my best version? The one with perfect lighting and carefully selected backgrounds? The one who never shows the shadows under her eyes or admits to being afraid?
The power flickers in the afternoon as the storm intensifies again. Gunnar immediately goes to check the generator, coming back with snow in his hair and a worried expression.
"That bad?" I ask.
He grabs his notebook.
Fuel low. Need to conserve. Might lose power tonight.
I nod, trying to hide my unease. "We'll manage."
We spend the next hour preparing—filling containers with water, gathering extra blankets and candles. Working together, we create a nest of cushions and blankets near the woodstove, the warmest spot in the cabin.
"Just in case," I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel.
As dusk approaches, the wind picks up, howling around the cabin like a living thing. The lights flicker once, twice, then go out completely. In the sudden darkness, I hear Gunnar moving confidently, striking a match to light the oil lamp he'd prepared.
The golden light casts long shadows across his face, highlighting cheekbones and the strong line of his jaw above his beard. For the first time, I notice a scar running along his hairline, partially hidden by dark hair.
"Were you in the military?" I ask suddenly, the question appearing from nowhere.
He stills, then gives a short nod.
