Morning came slow, with soft gray light spilling through the frosted windows. Ethan awoke first, as he always did, and lay still for a moment — watching his wife sleep. Her breathing was steady, her hand resting protectively on her belly even in dreams.
He slipped out of bed quietly, stirred the fire, and brewed coffee on the old iron stove. By the time she woke, the cabin was warm and smelled of roasted beans and pine smoke. She padded out in thick socks, kissed his cheek, and cradled the mug he offered.
"Mm," she murmured, her voice still heavy with sleep, "I could stay here forever."
They spent the morning wandering the woods, snow crunching beneath their boots. The air was sharp, filling their lungs, their laughter echoing faintly between the trees. She pointed out deer tracks pressed into the snow, a squirrel darting up a pine, icicles glimmering in the sunlight. At a frozen stream, she crouched carefully, gazing at her reflection in the thin sheet of ice.
"It's so still," she whispered.
"It's like the world's holding its breath," Ethan replied softly from behind her.
By midday, they returned to the cabin. He chopped wood while she hummed inside, her hands stroking the curve of her belly as she prepared a simple meal. They ate together by the fire, not talking much — just enjoying the quiet.
That night, snow came. Ethan opened the door in the morning to find the forest transformed, branches heavy with white, the world pristine. His wife gasped at the sight, her scarf pulled up around her chin.
"It's like a painting," she whispered.
Bundled together, they wandered again into the woods. The silence was deeper now, muffling every step. She stuck out her tongue to catch falling flakes, laughing with childlike joy. Ethan watched her, memorizing every detail.
In a clearing, she stooped down and scooped snow with her gloved hands. Before he could react, a small snowball smacked him in the chest.
He raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
"What?" she teased, backing away carefully. "Afraid to lose?"
The woods soon echoed with their laughter as snowballs flew back and forth. Ethan let himself lose, collapsing into the snow with his arms wide. She dropped down beside him, giggling, her breath fogging in the cold air.
"You know," she whispered, "when he's older, we'll have to bring him back here. Let him see this place. Let him throw snowballs at you."
Ethan turned his head, smiling faintly. "So, you're sure it's a boy now?"
"Mother's instinct," she said, smirking.
He took her hand in his, their gloves pressed together in the snow. "Then I'll make him a promise. To bring him here. To give him this peace."
Her smile softened, and for a moment, there was only silence — the hush of the snowy forest, the warmth of two lives intertwined, and the unspoken promise of the life yet to come.