Promises in the Snow

She grinned, but her eyes dared him. Charles gulped, weighing his options.

Charles smiled wryly. “Miss Hayes, he only ever called Emily, and once called Anna.”

He relented, voice low. The admission hung in the air, heavier than it should have been.

That time, Victor was annoyed by Emily’s crying, so he randomly picked a number, and it was Anna. When Anna came over, she tried to flirt with Victor, but he made her recite ‘The Gettysburg Address’ all night. Anna’s throat was hoarse and she couldn’t speak for a week.

Charles recounted the story, a faint smile playing at his lips. The memory was both ridiculous and oddly comforting—a reminder that Victor had never taken anyone else seriously.

Lillian, hearing this, threw another pebble into the pond. “Anna? The one who always wears white, all frail and delicate?”

Her tone was skeptical, tinged with jealousy. She pictured Anna, fluttery sighs and soft-spoken, always with a handkerchief at the ready.

Charles nodded, about to explain for Victor. “Miss Hayes, you really don’t have to worry, that time Victor…”

He started to reassure her, but Lillian cut him off, not wanting to hear excuses. She didn’t want to give the jealousy any more oxygen.

Lillian cut him off. “Alright, I know, let’s go back.”

She stood, dusted off her skirt, chin set with new resolve. Enough talk for now.

With that, she returned to her room, changed into a flowing white dress, pinned a white flower in her hair, and took a basket of peach cobbler bars to the sunroom.

She smoothed the dress over her hips, adjusting the flower until it sat just right. The cobbler bars were still warm, their scent filling the hall as she made her way to the sunroom, heart thumping with anticipation.

Charles hurried to stop her, “Miss Hayes, Mr. Langley said no one…”

He caught up, breathless, hands flapping in alarm. Lillian arched an eyebrow, daring him to finish the sentence.

Lillian turned to him. “Hmm?”

She fixed him with a look—innocent voice, sharp eyes. Charles wilted, surrendering without a fight.

Charles laughed awkwardly. “N-nothing, Miss Hayes, please go ahead.”

He stepped aside, bowing slightly, a sheepish grin on his face. Lillian swept past, dress billowing behind her.

Lillian entered the sunroom unimpeded, pitched her voice high and called sweetly from behind a plant, “Victor—”

She hid behind a potted fern, voice syrupy sweet, the kind that could rot your teeth. Sunlight streamed through the windows, painting her in gold.

Victor didn’t recognize her voice, didn’t even look up. “Didn’t I say not to let anyone in?”

He spoke without glancing up from his paperwork, tone distracted. Lillian grinned, creeping closer.

Charles shrank outside the door, not daring to speak.

He hovered in the hallway, torn between duty and self-preservation. No way he was getting between those two.

When Victor heard nothing more, he finally looked up and saw Lillian in white standing before him.

He froze, pen poised mid-air, eyes widening. The sight of her in the dress, flower in her hair, caught him off guard. For a second, he forgot to breathe.

His pen paused. “Aren’t you cold?”

His voice was softer, concern flickering across his face. He set the pen aside, giving her his full attention.

Lillian blinked and shook her head.

She smiled, her eyes shining. The dress was thin, but she barely felt the chill, too caught up in the moment.

Victor immediately draped a cardigan over her, then continued reading paperwork. “Didn’t you ignore me at lunch?”

He reached for the nearest sweater, wrapping it around her shoulders before returning to his documents. The gesture was automatic, almost unconscious. Lillian’s heart skipped.

Lillian shrugged off the cardigan, dawdled over to his side, and pulled the pen from his hand. “Victor, Victor, look at me!”

She pouted, tugging at his sleeve, determined to have his attention. The childishness in her voice was deliberate—a play for affection she hoped he’d recognize.

Victor suddenly felt a chill. “What’s wrong?”

He looked up, wary, sensing trouble. Lillian grinned, mischief barely contained.

Lillian burrowed into his arms, took a peach cobbler bar and brought it to his mouth. “Try this, I made it myself.”

She nestled closer, holding out the dessert with both hands. The scent of peaches and cinnamon filled the air, and for a moment, everything else faded away.

Victor’s Adam’s apple bobbed. Seeing her wriggling in his arms, his big, warm hand pressed her waist. “Stop it, I’m not hungry.”

He tried to sound stern, but the warmth in his touch betrayed him. Lillian giggled, pushing the cobbler closer.

Lillian stuffed the dessert into his mouth, smiling. “Is it good?”

She watched him expectantly, eyes wide and hopeful. The sweetness of the cobbler was nothing compared to the sweetness in her voice.

Victor swallowed, then couldn’t help raising his hand to feel her forehead. “Are you feeling okay? Should I call the doctor…?”

He pressed the back of his hand to her forehead, feigning concern. The gesture was half-joking, half-serious. Lillian batted his hand away, laughing.

Lillian lightly patted his chest, interrupting, “Victor, you’re such a joker. How could I be sick? Didn’t you used to like me like this?”

She leaned into him, voice teasing. The words hung between them, heavy with meaning. He hesitated, searching her face.

Victor turned her hand over and held it in his palm. “Who told you I liked this?”

He squeezed her hand, thumb tracing slow circles. His eyes searched hers, looking for an answer she couldn’t give.

Lillian looked pitiful and blinked, then acted coy. “Didn’t you used to call Anna? Hmph, you just like this type.”

She fluttered her eyelashes, mimicking Anna’s demure manner. The act was exaggerated, but her jealousy was real.

Victor smiled. “Charles told you?”

He glanced toward the door, a knowing smile on his lips. Outside, Charles shifted uncomfortably, sensing the conversation had turned to him.

Outside, Charles suddenly felt a chill down his neck.

He rubbed his arms, glancing over his shoulder as if someone had walked over his grave. The staff exchanged amused glances, well aware of the undercurrents swirling through the house.

Lillian shook her head, answering irrelevantly. “So what? Am I not acting like her? Hmph!”

She crossed her arms, turning her back on Victor. Her pout was theatrical, but her eyes sparkled with mischief.

Victor suddenly laughed, tapped her forehead. “Why are you acting like Anna? Trying to make me like you, huh?”

He ruffled her hair, laughter bubbling out of him. The sound filled the sunroom, chasing away the last shadows of doubt.

Lillian met the laughter in his eyes, her ears turning red, and she bounced out of his arms like she’d been burned.

She jumped up, cheeks flaming, heart racing. She couldn’t meet his gaze, afraid he’d see too much.

She immediately dropped the act, turned her head. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’ll act however I want, what does it matter to you whether you like it or not!”

Her voice was sharp, but her hands trembled. She clutched the dessert basket to her chest, using it as a shield.

Victor tried to grab her sleeve. “No, I…”

He reached for her, but she dodged, her movements quick and defensive.

Lillian dodged, angrily grabbed the dessert basket and left.

She stormed out, head held high, the basket swinging at her side. The staff scattered before her, not daring to get in her way.

Blushing, she returned to her room, flipped through a few paperbacks, and when it got dark, tossed the book aside and buried herself in the covers to sleep.

She tried to lose herself in stories, but the words blurred on the page. Eventually, she gave up, pulling the covers over her head, trying to forget the day.

When Victor came back and sat by her side to talk, she hid under the covers and pretended to sleep, ignoring him. Only after he returned to the guest room did she peek out, but still tossed and turned, unable to sleep.

She listened to his footsteps retreating, her heart aching. She peeked out, hoping he’d come back, but the hall was silent. Sleep wouldn’t come, no matter how hard she tried.

She kept glancing toward the guest room, her mind a jumble—

She watched the shadows shift on the wall, thoughts racing. Every creak of the house sounded like a footstep, every gust of wind like a whispered promise. She couldn’t shake the question gnawing at her.

She liked Victor, but did Victor like her?

The question gnawed at her, a persistent ache. She replayed every conversation, every glance, searching for clues.

She felt Victor did like her, but all this time, he had never said so. All his kindness felt both real and like a dream. Without his personal admission, she was afraid the dream would end at any moment.

She clung to every memory, every small gesture, but doubt crept in, whispering that it could all disappear in an instant. The uncertainty pressed on her chest, making it hard to breathe.

So hazy, so anxious.

She pressed her hand to her heart, willing it to slow. The darkness felt endless, the silence heavy.

She touched the scar on her forehead, then turned over again.

Her fingers traced the old wound, a reminder of everything she’d survived. She pulled the covers tighter, seeking comfort in their familiar weight.

She still thought Victor liked her. Was it because he couldn’t… that he never touched her?

She wondered, mind circling the question. Was it restraint, or something else? The uncertainty ate at her.

She had to try again!

She sat up, determination sparking in her eyes. She wasn’t going to let fear win—not tonight.

She clutched the quilt, daydreamed for a while, finally mustered her courage, got out of bed, and tiptoed toward the guest room.

Her bare feet made no sound on the hardwood as she crept down the hall, every step a dare. The house was silent, her own heartbeat the loudest thing in the world.

It was only a short walk, but she crept for ages, finally reaching the door. Seeing it closed, she carefully pushed it open and slowly approached Victor.

She hesitated, hand on the doorknob, then eased it open, peeking inside. Victor was sprawled on the bed, breathing slow and even. She tiptoed closer, heart thumping.

She looked at Victor’s sleeping face, took a deep breath, and put her hand on his belt.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for him, breath coming in short bursts. She was terrified and exhilarated, caught between wanting and fearing.

Suddenly, Victor rolled over.

He shifted in his sleep. Lillian froze, panic flooding her. Her heart leapt into her throat. She bolted for the door.

She jumped, turned and fled like a spooked cat, covering her burning face and diving into her own bed, forgetting to close the guest room door.

She scrambled down the hall, cheeks aflame, and dove under her covers, heart racing. She didn’t even notice the open door, too caught up in her embarrassment.

She hid under the covers and thought she heard a faint sigh from the other room.

The sound was soft, almost wistful. For a second, she wondered if Victor had been awake all along. The thought made her cheeks burn even hotter.

The next day, she spent the whole day psyching herself up. When night fell, she again snuck to the guest room.

She rehearsed her plan in her head all day, nerves frayed and hope flickering. As night settled over the estate, she crept down the hall once more, determination battling dread.

She reached to push the door—only to find it locked!

She jiggled the handle, heart sinking. She pressed her forehead to the door, frustration boiling over.

She bit her lip, stormed back to bed, and only after breakfast the next morning couldn’t help asking him, “Why’d you lock your door?”

She blurted the question over eggs and toast, unable to keep the accusation out of her voice. Victor set his fork down, meeting her gaze with a steady calm.

Victor put down his fork, pretending, “Yesterday I got up and found the door open, thought a ghost had come in.”

He kept his tone light, but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. Lillian scowled, not fooled for a second.

Lillian blurted out, “You’re the ghost!”

She jabbed her finger at him, her indignation real but tinged with laughter. The staff exchanged knowing smiles—this was their routine.

Victor approached her, tapped her head. “Why so jumpy? I didn’t say the ghost was you.”

He ruffled her hair, his touch light. Lillian tried to glare, but her lips twitched, amusement threatening to break through.

With that, he went out for meetings and didn’t return to the main hall until late.

He grabbed his briefcase, the weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders. Lillian watched him go, heart aching with things left unsaid.

In the days that followed, he got up earlier and returned later, and in several days altogether, hardly spoke to Lillian at all.

The house grew quieter, the space between them stretching wider. Lillian wandered the halls, footsteps echoing, longing for the sound of his voice.

Day after day, the last bit of autumn finally passed.

The leaves outside turned brittle and brown, swirling in the wind before piling against the porch. The days grew shorter, the nights colder, and the estate felt emptier than ever.

Winter came, everything faded, and the Hayes estate grew cold and quiet, silent and still.

The radiators clanked and hissed, but the chill seeped into every corner. Lillian wrapped herself in blankets, watching her breath fog in the cold morning air. The silence pressed in, heavy and unyielding.

The wind always blew in winter, the dry northern wind colder each day, howling past the porch; the gray clouds above seemed heavier every day, pressing down on the sky as if they could smother you.

The old windows rattled in their frames. Lillian shivered, pulling her shawl tighter. The world outside was a watercolor of gray, every sound muffled by the thick clouds overhead.

Lillian was affected by the bleak and oppressive winter atmosphere, and grew more uneasy by the day.

She found herself staring at the frost on the windowpanes, tracing patterns with her finger. The loneliness gnawed at her, every hour stretching out forever.

She always wanted to find a chance to talk to Victor, but he was nowhere to be seen these days.

She paced the halls, listening for his footsteps, hoping for a glimpse. The echoes of the past were louder than any comfort she could find in the present.

She asked Charles, but Charles said Victor returned to the west wing every night, only she slept early and rose late, missing him each time.

Charles’s explanation didn’t help. Lillian wondered if Victor was avoiding her, or if fate was just playing a cruel trick. The uncertainty made sleep even harder to find.

A few more days passed.

The days blurred together, each one colder and lonelier than the last. Lillian counted them by the number of times she heard the wind howl against the eaves.

That night, Victor returned to the west wing. The lights were already out, the hall pitch black, not a single lamp on.

He moved quietly, footsteps muffled by thick carpet. The darkness was nearly complete, only a faint moon-glow slipping through the curtains.

He used to tiptoe to Lillian’s bedside every night before sleeping, to see if she was asleep.

It had become a ritual—a silent reassurance she was safe. Tonight, though, he hesitated, the weight of unspoken words between them.

But tonight, just as he was about to walk to her bed, his steps paused.

He stood in the doorway, listening to her breathing, the silence heavy. He wanted to reach out, to close the distance, but something held him back.

In the end, he just stood there for a while in front of the curtains, then turned and entered the guest room.

He lingered, torn between desire and duty, before finally retreating to his own space. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing the distance.

As usual, he was about to lock the door, but as his hand touched the lock, he paused, smiled, put his hand down, and didn’t lock it after all.

He stood there, the key cool in his palm. With a quiet sigh, he set it aside, leaving the door unlocked—a silent invitation, or maybe a surrender. He slipped into bed, letting the silence fill the room.

Afraid of waking Lillian, he didn’t call for anyone, just undressed and got into bed.

He moved quietly, the sheets rustling beneath him. The room was cold, but he barely noticed—his mind was somewhere else entirely.

Suddenly, he felt something was off—

He frowned, sensing a difference in the air, the faintest trace of warmth where there should have been only cold.

The bedding was warm!

He ran his hand over the sheets, confusion flickering. The realization dawned, and a smile crept over his lips. He wasn’t alone.

Before he could react, a pair of arms suddenly emerged from the covers and hugged him tight.

He stiffened, then relaxed as he recognized the familiar scent of Lillian’s hair, the soft press of her arms around his waist.

He stiffened, turned his head, and saw Lillian looking at him, sleepy-eyed.

She blinked up at him, eyes heavy with sleep and longing. There was a kind of nakedness in her gaze that made him catch his breath.

She hugged him tighter, whispering, “You’re back so late, I almost fell asleep waiting.”

Her voice was soft, the words practiced but heartfelt. She pressed her cheek to his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

She said it smoothly, but in fact, she’d rehearsed it under the covers all night, stumbling over the words.

She’d whispered it to herself, over and over, until the words felt real. Now, in the quiet dark, she finally let herself say them out loud.

Victor squeezed her hand. “Why are you sleeping in the guest room?”

His voice was gentle, his fingers threading through hers. The question was simple, but the answer felt impossibly complicated.

Lillian nuzzled him. “This is my room to begin with.”

She pressed closer, breath warm against his skin. The words were a challenge—a reminder of everything they’d shared.

Victor stroked her hair. “Then you sleep here, I’ll sleep outside.”

He started to rise, but Lillian’s grip tightened, her determination clear. She wasn’t letting him go.

With that, he got up to leave, not even glancing back at her.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, movements stiff. The distance between them felt like a canyon.

Lillian propped herself up, grabbed his wrist, and yanked him back onto the bed. “You’re not allowed to go.”

She pulled him down, her grip fierce. Her eyes flashed, daring him to defy her.

Victor sat up again, ready to leave, his tone gentle. “Come on, be good.”

He tried to coax her, voice soft. But Lillian was done being good.

Lillian bit her lower lip, then straddled his waist, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I said you’re not allowed to go.”

Her boldness surprised even herself. She looked him in the eye, heart pounding, daring him to refuse her.

The hand Victor pressed to her waist grew hot, his Adam’s apple bobbed. “You’re being ridiculous!”

He tried to sound stern, but his resolve was crumbling. The heat between them was undeniable.

He took two deep breaths to calm himself, then softened his voice. “Get down, I’m a little tired.”

He tried to regain control, but Lillian pressed closer, her body warm against his.

Lillian’s face was burning, she buried her head in his neck pretending to be calm. “I won’t.”

She whispered the words, breath tickling his skin. Her determination was fierce, her vulnerability raw.

Tonight, she’d deliberately worn only a thin slip and pressed herself against him on purpose. The two were so close, their skin almost touching, their warmth and heat passing between them.

She shivered, feeling the electricity arc between them. The boundaries that had kept them apart seemed to dissolve in the darkness.

Victor shifted his legs to cover himself.

He tried to regain composure, but it was no use. Lillian’s presence was overwhelming, her touch intoxicating.

He steadied his breath, asked hoarsely, “What’s wrong? Did someone upset you today?”

He searched her face, concern softening his features. The question was gentle, an invitation to share her burdens.

Lillian nodded. “Yeah.”

Her voice was small, but the pain in it was real. She pressed closer, seeking comfort in his arms.

Victor patted her back. “Who upset you? I’ll take care of them tomorrow.”

He tried to lighten the mood, voice teasing. But Lillian wasn’t letting him off the hook.

Lillian suddenly bit his shoulder, only letting go when she drew blood. “You did.”

Her teeth sank into his skin, playful and desperate. She pulled back, meeting his gaze with defiance.

Victor said nothing, but the hand on her back tightened.

He winced, but didn’t pull away. The pain was a small price for her honesty.

Lillian ignored him, gently licked the wound she’d just made, and only stopped when she felt his body tense.

Her tongue traced the mark, a silent apology and a challenge. She watched his eyes darken, tension thickening between them.

She mumbled, “Victor, you haven’t spoken to me for days.”

Her voice trembled, the accusation raw. She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, searching for answers.

Victor’s breath was hot, but his tone was calm. “I’ve been busy with family business, really couldn’t get away.”

He tried to explain, words measured. But Lillian could hear the regret beneath them.

Lillian raised her face to look at him, met his eyes, and pressed, “You never told me, but the Carter family is about to challenge you, aren’t they?”

She searched his face, eyes bright with worry. The question was a dare, a plea for honesty.

Victor gently covered her eyes with his fingers. “This day was bound to come. They don’t want to just fade away, so they’re taking a gamble while they still have power.”

He stroked her hair, touch soothing. The words were grim, but his voice was steady—a promise he wouldn’t back down.

He rested his chin on her head, mumbling, “I’m confident, don’t worry.”

He pressed a kiss to her hair, the gesture tender. Lillian closed her eyes, letting herself believe him for a moment.

Lillian asked again, “Then tell me, why do you lock your door at night?”

She pulled back, eyes sharp. The question had haunted her, and she needed an answer.

Victor didn’t expect her to change the subject so quickly and was stunned.

He blinked, caught off guard. The shift in conversation was abrupt, but he didn’t shy away.

Lillian didn’t wait for him to answer, but snapped, “Yeah, I’m the ghost who opened your door!”

She poked his chest, voice rising. The accusation was half-joke, half-truth.

She moved her arms, pushed him from a sitting to a lying position on the bed.

She pressed him down, movements bold. The power dynamic shifted, and Victor let her take control.

She straddled his waist, looking down at him. “Are you afraid I’ll eat you?”

She grinned, eyes glinting. The question was playful, but the longing was real.

Victor met her gaze and laughed. “Would I be afraid of you?”

He shook his head, laughter warm. The fear was never of her, but of losing her.

Lillian pinched his face. “Then you’re afraid you can’t resist crawling into my bed!”

She squeezed his cheeks, tone teasing. Victor rolled his eyes, but didn’t protest.

Victor grabbed her hand. “Whatever you say.”

He laced his fingers with hers, grip solid. The words were a surrender, a promise.

She asked again, “Then why didn’t you lock the door tonight? Don’t want to crawl into my bed tonight?”

She leaned in, breath warm against his ear. The challenge was unmistakable.

Victor’s Adam’s apple bobbed, but he didn’t answer.

He swallowed, the silence between them thick with anticipation.

Lillian suddenly leaned in close, her nose touching his. “So you didn’t lock the door tonight, meaning you’re letting your favorite girl come over.”

Her words were a whisper, lips brushing his. The vulnerability in her voice was sharp.

Victor, half amused and half helpless, “What does my permission matter? You already came over on your own.”

He smiled, eyes soft. The words were a confession, an invitation.

Lillian stared into his eyes in the darkness, her eyes bright. “Because I can predict the future.”

She traced his jaw with her fingertip, touch feather-light. The words hung between them, heavy as stone.

She brushed his hair aside and whispered in his ear, “Let me predict again: you’re going to send me away tomorrow, aren’t you?”

Her voice trembled, breath warm against his skin. The fear in her words was raw, her need for reassurance desperate.

Victor’s hand on her waist suddenly tightened. “You—”

He started to protest, but she cut him off, unwilling to let him dodge.

“Me? How do I know?” Lillian interrupted, starting to pull at his shirt. “I sat outside the sunroom the other day and overheard.”

She tugged at his shirt, hands shaking. The confession was out, and there was no taking it back.

She pulled his shirt open, exposing his chest, her cool fingers tracing the lines of his muscles. “Did I agree?”

Her touch was tentative, eyes searching his face for answers. The vulnerability in her voice was raw.

Her eyes were hot, vision blurry, voice trembling. “I don’t think I ever agreed.”

Tears welled, blurring her vision. She blinked them away, refusing to let them fall.

Victor said nothing, but wiped away the tears about to fall from her eyes.

He brushed his thumb across her cheek, touch gentle. The silence between them was thick with everything unsaid.

She grabbed his hand, buried her head in his neck, and cried even harder. “I never agreed, so you can’t send me away.”

Her sobs were muffled against his skin, her grip fierce. The words were a plea, a demand, a declaration of love.

Victor patted her back, still silent.

He held her close, letting her cry. His silence was both comfort and torment.

She bit him again, raising her voice. “I said you can’t send me away, did you hear me?”

Her voice was raw, her tears hot against his skin. She needed him to hear her, to understand.

Victor was silent for a long time, finally replied hoarsely, “I heard.”

His voice was rough, thick with emotion. The words were simple, but they carried the weight of a promise.

Only then did Lillian stop crying, laying on his neck, both crying and laughing. Then, with a sudden force, she tore open his undershirt, revealing his strong waist and chest.

She laughed through her tears, wild and free. Her hands trembled as she pulled at his shirt, desire overwhelming fear.

She licked her lips, closed her eyes not daring to look at him. “Then… then I’m going to eat you now.”

Her words were a whisper, voice shaking. She pressed her lips to his, heart pounding.

Victor’s breathing was rough, but he lay still on the bed, his voice tinged with laughter. “Alright.”

He smiled, eyes dark with longing. The invitation was clear, boundaries gone.

Lillian was a bit flustered, not daring to look at him, one hand on his waist, hesitating to pull down his boxers.

Her breath came in short gasps, hands trembling. She closed her eyes, steeling herself.

Her breathing was rapid, her ears burning. Finally, she closed her eyes and leaned down to kiss his lips.

The kiss was tentative, searching, full of hope and fear. Their lips met, and the world fell away.

She and he were very close, noses touching, their breaths mingling.

She could feel his heartbeat beneath her palm, steady and strong. The intimacy was overwhelming, and she clung to him, afraid to let go.

She swallowed, mustered her courage, and finally moved toward his lips.

The moment stretched, suspended in time. Her lips brushed his, soft and tentative.

Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through her neck!

She gasped, eyes flying open. The pain was blinding, sudden and inexplicable.

She opened her eyes in shock, looking at Victor. “You…”

Her voice was barely a whisper, confusion and betrayal mingling in her gaze.

But her vision was gradually swallowed by darkness, her consciousness fading, her lips moving but unable to utter the unfinished words.

She fought to stay awake, to hold on, but the darkness was relentless. Her last thought was of Victor, his face blurred by tears.

Victor saw the shape of her mouth, and her last unsaid words were: “You lied to me.”

He watched her lips form the words, pain stabbing through him. He reached out, brushing her hair from her face.

He gently wiped away the tears at the corner of her eyes. “Sorry. There’s no such thing as a sure win in this world. If I win, I’ll come back for you.” With his other hand he straightened her clothes, his voice hoarse, “If I lose…”

His voice cracked, the words barely audible. He buttoned her shirt, hands shaking.

He suddenly fell silent, lowered his eyes, and looked at her, saying nothing more.

The silence was deep, final. He pressed his forehead to hers, breathing in her scent one last time.

Her eyes seemed to move, lashes trembling as if struggling to open them.

He watched, hope flickering. But her eyes stayed closed, her breath shallow, barely there.

He closed his eyes, leaned down, and gently kissed the scar on her forehead. “The old weatherman said it’ll snow this winter.”

His lips lingered on her skin, the words a promise and a farewell. He held her close, unwilling to let go.

His voice grew softer and softer, finally almost drowned out by the wind outside. “I’m still waiting to watch the first snow of the year with you.”

The wind howled outside, carrying his words away. Inside, the silence settled, deep and unbroken, as the first flakes of snow began to fall.