Page 4 of Silent Mountain Man
"Alone?"
Another nod.
"By choice?"
I hesitate, then nod again, more slowly.
She studies me, head tilted. "You don't talk at all?"
I reach for the notebook.
When necessary.
"Is it...canyou? Or do you choose not to?"
The question is intrusive, personal. I should be annoyed, but there's no judgment in her eyes, just curiosity. My pen hovers over the paper. Finally, I write:
Can. Choose not to.
She accepts this with a nod, not pushing further. "Thanks for letting me stay. I know it's not what you signed up for, having some random person invade your space."
The acknowledgment surprises me. She talks constantly but seems to understand what this intrusion means. I find myself writing again.
It's fine. Safer here.
And strangely, as the day progresses into another silent evening, with her curled on one end of the couch and me on the other, the silence between her bursts of commentary feels less like an invasion and more like an unexpected change in weather. Unwelcome, perhaps, but not entirely without merit.
The storm returns full force as night deepens, howling around the cabin's edges, rattling the windows in their frames. Dawn jumps at a particularly loud gust, then laughs nervously.
"Not used to the mountain's soundtrack," she explains.
I reach for the notebook.
Cabin's solid. Built it myself.
Her eyes widen. "You built this? The whole thing?"
I nod.
"That's..." She looks around with new appreciation. "That's amazing."
It's not, really. It's just wood and nails and necessity. But her admiration feels strangely warming, like standing near the stove on a cold morning.
As she drifts to sleep on the couch, I realize I've written more today than in the past month. Twenty-three words yesterday. Thirty-four today. Small conversations scratched on paper, building something I can't name.
The walls of my sanctuary feel different tonight. Less like a fortress. More like a shelter.
For both of us.
three
Dawn
Daytwointhesilent cabin, and I'm talking less.
It's strange how quickly we adapt. Already, I'm learning to read Gunnar's expressions—the slight furrow between his brows when he's thinking, the almost imperceptible nod that means yes, the way his eyes soften slightly when he's not annoyed.
We've fallen into a rhythm. Coffee in the morning, shared in silence. Work around the cabin, me helping where I can. Meals prepared side by side, him doing most of the cooking while I wash dishes afterward.
