It would destroy them.
So he said nothing. And kept returning to Jasmine.
The lies began to fray him. To friends, to family, to Helen most of all. The weight of deceit seeped into his sleep, his work, a shadow always over his pounding heart. He told himself he would end it soon—tomorrow, maybe, or next week—but he didn’t know how to let go when Jasmin’s door remained slightly ajar.
Then, on a midsummer afternoon, he arrived and knocked, and it wasn’t Jasmin who answered.
The man in the doorway was younger than expected. Tall, sun-worn, with kind eyes and a confident ease. He smiled warmly, extended his hand, asked about the porch. Thanked Nic for his craftsmanship. He was polite. Gracious.
He knew nothing.
And that, somehow, was the worst part.
If he’d been cruel or careless, Nic might have wrapped the affair in some self-righteous excuse. But this man—decent, open, possibly even likeable—left Nic staring into a mirror he didn’t want to face. In another life, they might have been friends. In this one, Nic had trespassed in the worst way.
He left after a short exchange, never even asking to see Jasmin. And for the first time since the porch was rebuilt, he didn’t come back.
Tempered by Rain
Collin’s elbow ached against the table’s edge. He scrubbed his fingers through his hair, then pressed his palm to his temple, nails digging lightly into his scalp—as if clawing clarity from bone might summon the ending faster. His eyes darted down the page, hunting for the protagonist’s fate with the urgency of a man drowning in someone else’s tragedy.
And then—nothing. The chapter ended. The hero lingered in limbo.
With a growl of disdain, Collin snapped the book shut. Why must writers torment their characters?
He tossed a glance at the clock on the mantel. Already late. Would a few more minutes make a difference? He eyed the book’s faded cover, longing to dive back in. But escapism had claimed enough of his time today. The real world, flawed and unedited as it was, waited—unimpressed by his literary anguish.
With reluctant fingers, he slid the book aside. It was the final bonfire night of the year. Skipping it wasn’t an option. Winter would close in soon enough, and they’d each vanish into its white silence—Arion to White Wood, Logan to Nereid, Nic to whatever wilderness beckoned to him again. Even those staying behind would be scattered—by snow, by silence, by life.
The previous winter hadn’t just crept in; it had taken root, a bitter lodger overstaying its welcome. The air felt sharper, the silence heavier, and the cold—well, the cold got into everything.Collin knew, rationally, that the weather hadn’t shifted so drastically. But try explaining that to the chill in his bones or the dread in his chest. Days blurred into a gray smear behind foggy windows. The snow never stopped falling—it only paused long enough to gather breath before resuming its quiet siege.
There were no spontaneous outings, no last-minute fishing rods hurled over shoulders, no town runs that turned into lazy, laughter-filled afternoons. Even the little joys vanished like breath in frost. People stopped making plans. Then they stopped trying. Each person, it seemed, had shrunk into themselves like embers beneath ash.
He had watched storm after storm twist across the mountainscape, huddled in the same worn chair, chin propped on knuckles, a mug of cold tea forgotten at his side. The snow clung to the world outside as fiercely as restlessness clung to him. Even chopping firewood—a task once meditative in its rhythm—felt like flailing at ghosts. His body demanded movement; his mind, escape.
And indoors... Claustrophobia took on new dimensions. The house felt like a ship in a bottle tipped on its side, beautiful in theory, maddening in practice. He bickered with Aries about how to salt the porch, then argued with Hadria about who had eaten the last of the preserves. The lovers had their own theatrics—resentments aired in bursts of sarcasm and long silences—and Collin, perpetually caught in the crossfire, soon found himself longing for the kind of solitude now so rare.
Eventually, he retreated into the one corner of the house untouched by pettiness or cabin fever, his father’s old study. Dust thick enough to write poetry in, books that smelled like paper and time. As he sorted and shelved each one, he began to read them again—not out of nostalgia, but necessity. There were worlds inside those pages that didn’t feel frigid or heavy or stuck. Worlds where people suffered bravely, acted foolishly,fought valiantly—where the stakes were high and the language beautiful. He remembered passages he once knew by heart, characters who had once seemed like cousins. They met him again like they’d been waiting for him.
Spring returned in bursts—wildflowers cracking through slush, sunlight that lingered a few minutes longer each evening. The world thawed, and so did he. When school resumed, he attacked his old duties with a half-hearted vigor that surprised even him. But as the days wore on, fairytales and art projects could no longer hold his attention. He began to dread the sing-song reading circles and sticky-fingered chaos. He needed something with teeth.
Lekyi saw it, thankfully. With his help, Collin launched a study group for older students—something rigorous, something real. To his surprise, it flourished. Soon he was spending hours tutoring students on difficult texts, guiding them through independent projects, challenging their arguments and sharpening their thinking. He found himself drafting lesson plans again—not out of duty, but desire.
Summer passed in a haze of debate and discovery. By autumn, Collin was fully immersed. His days were full of students on the cusp of real understanding, and his nights were spent reading over their essays, sketching feedback in the margins. He caught himself smiling at odd moments, humming as he crossed the square toward the meeting hall. It hadn’t happened all at once, this quiet resurgence, but looking back now, he realized he was happy. Not ecstatic, not euphoric—but grounded. Satisfied. Awake.
