How did ancient people record the passage of time? How did they mark the events of their lives? His nineteenth birthday was near. Or perhaps it had already come and gone. It didn’t matter out here. Still, the thought lingered.
He planned to return to civilization within a few weeks. But was he ready? Had he truly found healing amongst these silent stones—or merely buried his anguish beneath solitude? Sooner or later, he would have to face what he had run from. The world would not wait forever.
As more days blurred past, Nic continued to stall. He told himself the trails were too wet, the snow too deep, that no one expected him home until spring. He hadn’t packed snowshoes. The storm clouds looked ominous. A dozen small reasons. But eventually, the sound of the waterfall changed—thicker, fuller. The snow was melting in earnest.
It was time.
Time to leave the solitude, and return to the noise he once called life.
Nic sat at the water’s edge and brought the blade to his throat. Slowly, he scraped the soapsuds from his skin, clearing a path through the coarse bristle. Each pass of the steel revealed a smoother surface, pale and clean in the pool’s reflected light. Between strokes, he rinsed the blade in a shallow bowl, the lather swirling away.
Since his first days in the wilderness, he’d only bothered to shave once a week—less out of vanity and more to keep the wind from tugging at his whiskers. Out here, the crabs and seabirds had no opinions about his scruff. But now that his return was drawing near, he preferred not to look quite so feral.
He sheathed the blade and studied his reflection in the wavering surface. His hair, wild and sun-streaked, could use a trim. But that could wait.
Spring had come—or perhaps he had simply grown used to the constant chill. Either way, the cold didn’t sting the same as it once had. He stripped down and stepped into the pool. The water was icy, but he didn’t flinch. With deliberate movements, he bathed—scrubbing his hair until it squeaked, his skin until it flushed pink. He scoured every inch, as though shedding a second skin, washing away the last traces of salt and solitude and wilderness.
When he was clean, he let himself drift.
He lay on his back, arms outstretched, the water cupping his body like a gentle hand. The sky above stretched wide and blue, and the voice of the waterfall murmured in his ears, a lullaby of stone and stream. The current turned him slowly, lazily, like a leaf adrift.
Saying goodbye would not be easy.
This place—the hidden pool, the shadowed cliffs—had become more than a refuge. It had become a witness. Thegranite had borne silent testimony to his grief. The waterfall had absorbed his nightmares, mirrored his dreams. The stones remembered the rhythm of his breath, the flicker of his pulse.
Here, he had felt things he could not name and glimpsed truths he could not speak.
This sanctuary in the mountains had offered him more than shelter from the storm. It had offered silence. Stillness. A place to carry his sorrow without apology.
And though he had not yet found peace, he could feel its shape now—distant, glimmering. A thing not lost but simply waiting.
Nic’s return to the summit was slow going—mud clung to his boots, and the soft, thawing earth made each step a tiring slog. Snowmelt had slicked the trails into treacherous rivulets, and progress came only with patience. But eventually, the climb leveled out. The ground grew firmer beneath his feet, and patches of snow emerged beneath the trees, bright and familiar.
He hadn’t realized how deeply he’d missed the winter woods until they opened around him again. He stopped for a breath, letting the view settle over him.
Damn. It was beautiful.
Sunlight pierced the canopy in golden shafts, dancing across ice-laced snowdrifts. Crystals glinted like scattered stars, catching light in every angle—melt and frost interwoven into brilliance. The forest was quiet, but not empty. It was alive in the way old things were—still, eternal, and waiting.
The crisp crunch of snow beneath his boots was like music. The scent of pine resin and damp bark wove into his lungs, filling him with a scent that was steady and clean.
Whatever lingering doubts he’d felt about returning home melted like frost in morning sun.
He picked up his pace, lengthening his stride, heart buoyed by the promise of reunion. His family. His friends. Warm hands, familiar voices. The thought pressed gently at his heart, urging him forward—not with dread, but with lightness.
A long-forgotten song returned to him. He sang the verses, half to himself, half to the trees.
Footsteps echo, soft and slow,
Crunching down through melting snow.
Bare trees whisper in the light,
Shadows long but the air shines bright.
Winter lingers, holding tight,
But the sun is shining bright.
