The first snow came early.
It arrived in silence — soft, slow, and blanketing the world in white. By morning, Wren Street was hushed beneath a thick layer of powder, and the old house seemed to exhale into the stillness. Smoke curled from the chimney, windows glowed golden, and the five people inside began to draw closer, like hands around a fire.
Mira loved the snow. She said it reminded her of Eloise — of days spent making snow creatures in the garden, of evenings huddled under patchwork quilts. She filled the house with candles and music, placing sprigs of pine and cinnamon on the windowsills. It smelled like memory.
Jaya, less enchanted, declared she'd never seen real snow before moving here. Her boots weren't waterproof, her gloves were mismatched, and within hours she had slipped on the front steps twice.
"I'm going to die here," she muttered one morning, cheeks red from the cold. "Buried under a snowdrift and found in spring."
Liam, amused, handed her an old pair of his wool socks. "Start with warm feet. Everything else follows."
---
The storm came three days later.
Not the gentle kind — this one was angry. Wind howled through the chimney like a voice lost in time. Snow slammed against the windows. Power lines groaned. Just after dusk, the house went dark.
The power was out.
At first, no one panicked. Mira lit oil lamps and passed out blankets. Omar started heating soup over the gas stove. Jaya attempted to charge her phone using a solar battery she'd forgotten she owned. Tess sat quietly in the corner, her sketchbook open, drawing by candlelight.
Then the temperature began to drop.
And the storm did not stop.
---
That night, something shifted.
The five of them gathered in the living room, layered in blankets, sleeping bags, and Mira's old quilts. Liam read aloud from A Christmas Carol, his voice deep and soothing, while Mira made shadow puppets on the wall.
When the wind grew especially fierce, Jaya instinctively reached for Tess's hand. To everyone's quiet surprise, Tess let her. Their hands stayed linked, hidden beneath the layers.
Omar handed out bowls of hot soup. "This is what winter is supposed to be," he said. "Not easy, but shared."
They slept in a heap on the floor that night. Mira's dog-eared copy of Little Women was left open on a pillow. Tess drew the scene while everyone else dozed — five figures under quilts, the fire casting flickering shadows across the floor.
The drawing ended up on the mantel the next morning.
No one asked who left it there.
They all knew.
---
The next day brought silence.
White surrounded the house. Roads were blocked. Power was still out. They had nowhere to go — and nothing to do but be there. Together.
So they talked.
Not just the casual kind, but the real kind — the kind that fills the cracks of silence.
Jaya spoke of her childhood, of a mother who pushed her to excel, to survive, to be twice as good for half the credit. Liam shared stories of his partner, Daniel — of laughter, of grief, of the empty house he left behind. Omar talked about fleeing home, about exile, about building identity in pieces.
And Tess… spoke.
She told them, in a small, shaking voice, about the night her parents screamed so loud she hid in a cupboard. About how she started drawing because it was quieter than crying. About how sometimes, silence was safety.
No one said anything for a long time.
Then Mira, tears on her cheeks, said only, "Thank you."
They didn't press for more.
They didn't need to.
---
The storm broke on the fourth day.
The power returned. Roads cleared. Life resumed.
But something had changed.
That storm had been more than snow. It had carved space for honesty. For softness. For the realization that maybe — just maybe — this house, with its creaks and quirks, was becoming more than a shelter.
It was becoming a home.