Page 7 of Silent Mountain Man
When I return, Dawn is awake, rekindling the fire with surprising competence. She looks up at my entrance, a smile transforming her face.
"Power?" she asks simply.
I hold up three fingers. Three hours, maybe.
She nods, understanding without words. "Enough to heat water at least. I'd kill for a cup of coffee."
I find myself almost smiling at the dramatic declaration. City people and their coffee. But I nod, filling the kettle and setting it on the woodstove to heat while I restart the generator.
When it hums to life, the cabin's few lights flicker on. Dawn lets out a small cheer, and this time I do smile, briefly.
She catches it, her eyes widening slightly. "You should do that more often," she says. "Smile."
I shrug, turning away to prepare the coffee. But her words stay with me, warm in my chest like the first sip of coffee on a cold morning.
After breakfast, I notice her looking at my camera again. On impulse, I pick it up, check the battery, and hold it out to her. She takes it, surprise evident.
"Really? You're sure?"
I nod.
"Thank you." Her voice is quiet, sincere. She handles the camera with reverence, running her fingers over the controls. "It's an older model, but a classic. Great glass."
I raise an eyebrow, impressed by her knowledge.
"I started with actual photography," she explains, "before the social media thing took over." She looks out the window, where the storm has calmed to gentle snowfall. "Think we could go outside? Just for a few minutes?"
I consider the risks. The temperature has risen slightly, and the wind has died down. A short excursion should be safe. I nod, then gesture for her to wait while I get proper outerwear.
I find my spare jacket, too large for her but warmer than her fashionable yellow one. When she puts it on, it swallows her, the sleeves hanging past her fingertips. She laughs, rolling them up, and something in me responds to the sound.
Outside, the world is transformed into crystal stillness. Dawn moves through it slowly, camera raised, capturing images of snow-laden branches, the way light fractures through icicles, the contrast of the dark cabin against white hills.
I watch her work, recognizing the focus in her eyes. This isn't the performative photographer she described, staging shots for likes and comments. This is an artist seeing beauty and capturing it.
"It's so quiet," she whispers, as if afraid to disturb the silence. "In the city, there's always noise. Always someone watching, commenting. Here it's just..." She gestures to the vast whiteness around us.
I nod, understanding completely. It's why I chose this place—the silence that heals, that doesn't ask for words in return.
When the cold begins to seep through our layers, we return to the cabin. Dawn's cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright with excitement as she shows me the images on the camera's display. They're good—thoughtful compositions, interesting perspectives. Not just pretty pictures, but ones with something to say.
"Thank you," she says again, returning the camera. "That was... I needed that."
I take back the camera, our fingers brushing in the exchange. This time, I don't pull away from the contact. Neither does she.
Later, as evening approaches, the generator sputters and dies again. We've prepared this time—water stored, blankets ready, oil lamp lit. The temperature drops quickly without the electric heater supplementing the woodstove.
Dawn sits cross-legged by the fire, looking through my photography portfolio again. "Will you tell me about these?" she asks, pointing to a series of dawn shots taken from the same vantage point but in different seasons.
"They're beautiful. Honest." She looks up. "You see the world differently than most people."
I write again, surprising myself with the admission.
Easier to see than speak.
"I understand that," she says softly. "Sometimes I think I hide behind words. Talk so much no one notices I'm not saying anything real."
The insight surprises me. She's more self-aware than I gave her credit for.
