They chatted in short bursts as she worked. He told her of the crabs at the Singing Cove, the waterfall of fire, the cold and starvation. She nodded and listened, offering the occasional bemused hum.
Eventually, he felt his hips shift—the snow yielding around him at last. Jasmin dropped the spade and took his good hand as he struggled to crawl free. With her tugging and his flailing, they managed to haul him out.
He collapsed in the snow, panting, but Jasmin crouched beside him and shook her head. “No time for napping. Let’s get you warm.”
She slung his pack over her shoulder and let him brace against her as they set off. Nic leaned heavily on her delicate frame concealed beneath a heavy coat, but Jasmin bore the weight like a soldier.
“Remind me,” he muttered between shallow breaths, “to send your goat a thank-you letter.”
She laughed, and it echoed through the frost-laced trees like the first true bell of spring.
Moonlight was slanting through the windowpane when Nic finally stirred. The fire snapped softly nearby, casting flickers of gold across the wooden walls. Swaddled in blankets, he cautiously wiggled his fingers and toes. Everything seemed more or less intact—achy, yes, but accounted for. A promising start.
He blinked at the room. Cozy. Warm. Unmistakably not the underside of a tree.
In an armchair beside the hearth, Jasmin sat reading, oblivious to his awakened state. Her hair was pinned back, revealing the fine curve of her neck and the concentration etched into her brow. A patchwork quilt was wrapped tightly around her shoulders, hands peeking out just far enough to hold the book. A wayward curl fell forward, and when she brushed it back behind her ear, her gaze met his.
She smiled, closed the book, and stood—letting the quilt slide off. “Well, you look better.”
He gave her a grin. “I graduated from nearly dead to vaguely functional, thanks to you.”
Heat crept into his cheeks, though whether it was her smile or the proximity to the fire, he couldn’t say. “How long was I out?”
“A few hours. You were snoring by the time I stoked the fire.”
“Charming,” he muttered. “Add that to the list of ways I impress strangers.”
She poured a cup of tea and set it carefully into his hands. “You must be starving. Can you eat?”
“Unless the alternative is chewing my own arm, yes. Though I must admit, only one of them is currently up for the task.”
Jasmin vanished into the kitchen. Moments later, she returned with a tray so heavenly he nearly wept: fresh bread, thick slices of ham, and a cup of warm goat’s milk that smelled faintly of the field. He tore in with little regard for dignity.
“I didn’t realize a tree could knock the hunger out of meandput it right back in,” he said around a mouthful of salted ham. “Truly a versatile foe.”
She laughed and refilled his mug. “It’s a good thing I was out late feeding the goats. If not, you’d have been snowed in and snacked on by a pack of wolves.”
Nic raised his mug with solemn ceremony. “To the goats. Unsung heroes of woodland rescue.”
Their mugs clinked gently, and for the first time in days, Nic didn’t feel like a man trying to outrun the weight of the world. Just a man with a splinted arm, a mouthful of buttered bread, and a very good story.
In the morning, Jasmin saddled her old mule and delivered Nic safely to his parents’ front steps. He thanked her profusely. His mother outdid him—pressing gratitude into her hands along with several jars of fresh preserves. But even with all the words and tokens, it didn’t feel like enough to repay what Jasmin had done.
River arrived shortly after for a house call. His diagnosis was swift and thorough. Nic had a fracture in both his arm and shoulder, and was now under firm orders to stay in bed, eat well, and avoid solo wilderness adventures for the foreseeable future.
In the quiet days that followed, Nic found his thoughts often returning to Jasmin. If she hadn’t been out tending to her goats... if he’d taken a different trail, paused a momentlonger, stopped at another part of the stream—just a minute’s difference, and their paths might never have crossed. The realization sat heavily in his chest.
He might have died beneath that tree.
Before long, Nic could manage short walks around the yard. He had grown used to the rhythm of visitors—Collin and Aries bringing news from the village square, Dragonfly smuggling in crumbly sweetbread, Hadria laughing too loudly at his more exaggerated tales. He told them everything: the sunsets, the turkey in the brambles. But he didn’t tell them about the dreams or the stone figurine or the way his soul had ached in the silence. He saved those for someone else. Someone who had not yet come.
So when he saw Helen, walking up the path with a crimson shawl wound tight around her shoulders and her hair wind-tousled, he didn’t think. He bolted, wincing as his shoulder protested, but he ran anyway—awkwardly, unevenly, half-limping—until she was in his arms.
She smelled like the hearth and lavender soap. He kissed her. Twice. Then pulled back, scowling.
“Why in all the skies did it take you so long?”
She looked down, her smile small and unsure. “I didn’t know if you’d want to see me.”
