"You picked a bad week to visit," she said, walking ahead. "The northern winds are unpredictable. The storm may block the roads for a day or two."
"Or three?" he asked lightly.
Elara hesitated. "Possibly."
There was something in her tone that suggested concern—not for him specifically, but for anyone caught unprepared in the North's harsh moods.
He followed her up the wooden stairs, noticing how carefully she moved, how she kept a polite distance. There was an invisible wall around her, one she probably didn't even realize she had built.
"This is your room," she said, opening a door to a cozy space with a large bed, thick blankets, and a window overlooking the forest. "If you need extra heating, there's a control switch on the side table. And if you need anything else… just ask."
He set his bag down and smiled. "I appreciate that."
Elara nodded, her expression unreadable.
Then she added, almost reluctantly, "Dinner will be ready in an hour. You're welcome to join."
"Wouldn't miss it."
She paused, as though wanting to say something more, then simply said, "Alright," before turning to leave.
Matrin watched her go, feeling an odd pull in his chest.
There was something about her—something steady and hauntingly gentle—that made the silence between them feel charged, almost warm.
He walked toward the window. Outside, the storm had intensified. Snow swirled like restless spirits beneath the moonless sky.
He lifted his camera again and pointed it toward the forest. The darkness beyond seemed impossibly deep, as though hiding centuries of secrets.
Click.
The shutter echoed softly.
For a long moment, he simply stood there, watching the snow fall.
Tomorrow, he would explore the town. Capture its winter charm. Meet its people. Document its stories.
But tonight, something lingered in his mind—not the storm, not the project, not the endless road behind him.
Elara Venice.
A woman carved from winter itself.
And somehow, the North suddenly felt a lot less empty.
The cold had grown sharper overnight. When Matrin awoke, his breath hung in the air above him like a small cloud, pale and fleeting before it faded into nothing. He lay still for a moment, listening to the quiet inside the lodge room—an almost sacred silence, the kind born from thousands of miles of unbothered frost. No traffic. No voices. No city grinding against itself. Only the faraway sigh of the wind brushing past the wooden walls.
He sat up slowly. His neck still ached from sleeping on the unfamiliar pillow, and the stiffness in his shoulders reminded him that he wasn't home—not that he had been attached to that place, anyway. But here, everything felt like a reset. A space untouched. A world waiting.
He slipped on his sweater, a thick woolen one he'd bought last minute in a mainland thrift shop before boarding the ice shuttle. It smelled faintly of detergent and lavender. He grabbed his camera bag, slung it over his shoulder, and stepped out.
The hallway was empty, lit by faint orange bulbs embedded in iron sconces. The lodge had a rustic charm—dark beams crossing the ceiling, wooden floors polished but worn, doors of heavy pine. He walked toward the front area where a fire crackled in a stone hearth. Two locals sat near it, sipping dark coffee, speaking in low tones. A dog slept curled beneath their feet.
From the far side of the room, someone stood behind the wooden counter, flipping through papers. Matrin recognized her even though she hadn't turned yet. Something in the air—stillness breaking, as if the building itself sensed her presence—told him she was the same woman he'd encountered outside the previous night.
When she lifted her head, the morning light caught her auburn hair, making it gleam like quiet flame. Her gray coat was the same one he had seen, but in the warmth of day, she looked softer. Less like a ghost in the snow and more like a portrait against the firelight.
She glanced at him briefly, expression unreadable, then returned to her papers.
Matrin hesitated. He wasn't usually shy. He wasn't bold either—at least, not anymore. Something about age, heartbreak, and time had taught him to move more carefully. But curiosity tugged at him. Last night, she had vanished into the storm in a way that didn't make sense. People didn't just disappear without leaving footprints. And yet she had.
He stepped closer.
The woman lifted her eyes once more. This time she held his gaze, steady and deliberate, as if she'd been expecting him. Her eyes were green—clear, sharp, holding secrets the way the northern ice held fossils.
"Good morning," she said quietly. Her voice was low, gently roughened by the cold. "Did you sleep well, traveler?"
Traveler. Not photographer. Not guest. Traveler. The word felt ancient.
"Better than I expected," he answered. "It's quieter here than I'm used to."
"That's the North. It makes you listen to things you've been avoiding."
Matrin stilled.
The sentence felt too precise. Too pointed. It struck the place inside him he thought he'd buried under layers of work, routines, and dead relationships.
He exhaled, letting the air come out in a soft laugh. "You have a way of talking like you already know me."
"Do I?" Her expression didn't change, but her eyes flickered—like she wanted to say something she wasn't allowed to say. "I meet many travelers. You look like someone who's trying to remember how to breathe."
Matrin blinked.
Who was she?
He stepped closer to the front desk. "I didn't catch your name last night."
"You didn't ask."
He felt his lips twitch. "I'm asking now."