By the time evening had fully settled over the mountains, the wind had picked up, weaving a low, mournful sound through the thick pines beyond the lodge. Inside, the warmth of the fire fought valiantly against the chill creeping through the ancient wooden beams. Mia sat curled in one of the worn armchairs near the hearth, her fingers wrapped around a mug of lukewarm tea she had long since forgotten.
The lodge was quiet, the only sounds were the occasional clink of crockery from the small bar and the soft murmur of conversation between two hikers in the far corner. For once, the world outside her mind moved slower than the chaos within it.
Her gaze wandered, absently tracing the familiar outlines of the room. The flames danced and hissed, sending embers spiraling into the air. As Mia scanned the room, her eyes fell on him again—the man from earlier. He was seated by the far window, lost in the mist outside, his journal open before him, pen resting idly in his hand.
He wasn't writing. He was lost in some thought far from the present. Every so often, he hummed under his breath, a soft, meandering tune that stirred something inside her—a faint, forgotten comfort. It wasn't loud enough to disturb anyone, but just enough to catch her attention.
There was something almost hypnotic about the sound, a quiet pull that Mia didn't fully understand. She found herself glancing at him more often than she cared to admit.
Eventually, the fire's warmth and the weight of the silence around her made her stir. Her tea had long since cooled. She rose and moved towards the sideboard to refill her mug. When she returned to her armchair, she stopped short. Her old seat was taken. The only unoccupied spot was at his table, across from him.
Mia hesitated.
She hadn't planned on sitting with anyone. She hadn't even planned on speaking to anyone. Yet, something about the quiet, the stillness that hung around him, made her feel less alone. Maybe it was the odd comfort of sitting near someone who didn't ask anything of her, who didn't seem to expect anything. With a quiet breath, Mia crossed the room.
"Would you mind?" she asked, her voice barely rising above the soft hum of the lodge. She nodded towards the empty chair opposite him.
He looked up, his gaze surprisingly warm despite the distance in his eyes. There was no rush in his movements—only a quiet acknowledgment. His voice, when he spoke, was soft, the words flowing like a calm stream. "Please."
Mia slid into the seat, her fingers wrapping around her tea once more. She sat in silence, not uncomfortable, but neither was she at ease. He didn't speak again, but he continued to hum under his breath, the melody almost imperceptible. She caught a fleeting note—a tune that seemed oddly familiar, though she couldn't place it.
"Is that a song?" she asked, unable to stop herself from asking.
He looked at her, his expression almost unreadable. "Old folk tune," he said. "My mother used to sing it."
The simplicity of his words—and the quiet strength behind them—caught Mia off guard. There was something in that shared, unspoken memory that made her feel less isolated, even if just for a moment. The kind of connection you rarely found in fleeting encounters.
"It's... nice," Mia said, offering a faint smile. "Better than the thoughts I was having before you started humming."
He glanced at her, his lips twitching in what could have been the faintest hint of a smile. "That bad, huh?"
Mia felt something shift in her, a small, unexpected openness. "You could say that."
He nodded slowly, his gaze returning to the mist outside the window. For a while, neither of them spoke. The quiet felt comfortable—companionable in a way Mia hadn't realized she needed.
"You've been here long?" Mia asked, her voice soft.
"A few days," he said.
She nodded, trying not to look too curious. "Does it help? Being here, I mean."
He paused. "Quiets things down."
Mia looked into the fire. "That's what I was hoping for. Just... quiet."
Another beat of silence. Then he said, "It's a good place for that."
His voice was calm, measured, and sparse—each word chosen, nothing wasted. There was no pressure to speak, no small talk. Just a kind of stillness that matched her own.
She hesitated, then tried again. "You live nearby?"
He shook his head. "Not really. I just come when I need to."
That was all. No more offered, no explanation. But somehow, it was enough. Mia didn't feel shut out—only gently reminded that not everything needed to be said.
They sat quietly again. After a while, he set down his empty mug and rose, gathering his journal.
"I'm heading up," he said, voice low.
Mia looked up at him. "Okay. Sleep well."
He gave a quiet nod, then turned and walked away, his steps soft against the old wooden floor. She watched him go, a strange lightness stirring in her chest.
She'd come here to be alone.
And yet, as she lingered by the fire a moment longer, Mia realized she didn't mind sharing a silence like that—with someone who didn't try to fix her, or ask anything.
As she made her way to her room, she found herself humming without meaning to—the same slow, aimless tune he'd hummed earlier. It stayed with her, soft as mist, as she slipped into the stillness of her night.
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