The snow showed no signs of stopping. By morning, the town of Cedarwood was blanketed in nearly a foot of pristine white, the streets hushed and still. Nate stared out his window at the untouched snow, his mind far from the scene before him.
Lia's words lingered like a whisper he couldn't escape.
"You don't have to carry it by yourself."
It sounded so simple. But simplicity didn't mean ease. For Nate, it meant peeling back layers of pain he'd kept buried for years. It meant acknowledging that the life he'd built in Cedarwood, this quiet retreat, wasn't as much about peace as it was about hiding.
He spent the morning painting. His brush moved with purpose, the strokes bolder than usual. The colors that emerged were vivid and raw—streaks of crimson, shadows of deep blue, bursts of bright gold. It was chaos, and it felt like he was pouring pieces of himself onto the canvas.
By the time he stepped back, the studio was a mess. Splattered paint dotted the floor and his clothes, but the painting on the easel was alive. It wasn't perfect—far from it—but it felt honest.
For the first time in a long time, Nate allowed himself to feel pride in his work.
That afternoon, Lia texted him.
Lia: Surviving the snowstorm over there, hermit?
Nate smirked at the message, her lighthearted tone cutting through the weight of his thoughts.
Nate: Barely. My heater's doing its best, though.
Lia: Good. You've got too much brooding artist energy already. Can't have you turning into a full-on ice sculpture.
Nate: Tempting fate, aren't you?
Lia: Always. Anyway, I'm coming over later. Bring your appetite.
Nate sighed but didn't argue. Lia showing up uninvited had become so routine he couldn't imagine a day without it.
By evening, the snow had stopped, and the sky was painted in hues of deep orange and soft pink. Lia arrived just as the last light faded, carrying a steaming pot wrapped in a towel.
"Chicken soup," she announced, stepping inside. "Because it's cold, and you look like someone who hasn't had a proper meal in days."
Nate raised an eyebrow. "What gave me away? The paint stains or the general air of despair?"
"Both," she replied with a grin, heading straight for the kitchen.
Over bowls of hot soup, the conversation was light. Lia recounted an embarrassing story about her attempt to ski as a teenager, complete with exaggerated reenactments of her disastrous falls. Nate found himself laughing more than he had in weeks, her humor easing the tension that had been building inside him.
But as the meal wound down, the room grew quieter. Lia leaned back in her chair, her gaze thoughtful.
"Nate," she began softly, "can I ask you something?"
He stiffened slightly, sensing the shift in her tone. "Depends on what it is."
"Why did you choose Cedarwood?"
The question caught him off guard. He'd expected something more direct, more probing. But Lia's curiosity wasn't accusatory; it was genuine.
"I don't know," he said after a moment. "It felt... far enough away. Quiet. No one here asks questions."
"Except me," Lia pointed out with a small smile.
He chuckled, though it was a hollow sound. "Yeah. Except you."
Her smile faded, replaced by an expression of quiet determination. "You're allowed to move on, you know. Whatever happened—whatever you're running from—it doesn't have to define you."
Nate looked away, his jaw tightening. "You don't understand."
"Then help me understand," she said, her voice steady but not demanding. "You keep everything locked up so tight, Nate. You're like a book with all the pages ripped out. But I think... I think you want someone to read the story anyway."
Her words struck a chord, cutting through the walls he'd spent years building. For a long moment, he didn't say anything. The silence stretched between them, heavy but not uncomfortable.
Finally, he exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.
"My brother," he said quietly. "Ethan."
Lia didn't speak, didn't push. She just listened, her eyes locked on his, giving him the space he needed.
"He was... everything I wasn't," Nate continued, his voice low. "Outgoing, fearless, always getting into trouble. I was the one who cleaned up his messes, who tried to keep him out of harm's way. But one night, I couldn't. We fought—over something stupid, probably. And the next morning..."
His voice cracked, and he paused, swallowing hard. "The next morning, he was gone. Car accident. Just like that."
Lia's gaze softened, her expression a mixture of compassion and sorrow. "Nate, I'm so sorry."
He shook his head. "I keep thinking about all the things I could've done differently. Maybe if I hadn't pushed so hard, he wouldn't have driven off that night. Maybe if I'd been a better brother—"
"Stop," Lia said firmly, cutting him off. "You can't carry that blame. It's not fair—not to you, and not to Ethan. You loved him, Nate. That's what matters."
Her words were a balm he hadn't realized he needed. For the first time in years, the weight on his chest felt a little lighter.
"Thank you," he said quietly, his eyes meeting hers.
Lia smiled, reaching across the table to place a hand over his. "Anytime."
That night, after Lia left, Nate stood in his studio, staring at the painting he'd worked on earlier. The bold colors, the chaotic strokes—they felt like a reflection of everything he'd just shared.
And for the first time, he didn't feel the need to hide it.