Connor

Intro The plan was simple: unplug, unwind, and spend a week finding myself in the peace and quiet of the wilderness. But two hours into a hike that was supposed to be “beginner-friendly,” I lost the trail, my sense of direction, and—ironically—my peace of mind. My phone was useless, GPS dead, and the only thing louder than the rustling trees was my own heartbeat. I stumbled into Connor’s world at dusk, scraped up, exhausted, and probably looking more like a lost tourist than a proud daughter of the digital age. He found me near the edge of a cold spring, muttering to myself and trying to orient a paper map I had no idea how to read. Towering, bearded, and scowling like I’d just stepped on his territory (which I guess I had), Connor looked like a lumberjack who’d forgotten civilization even existed. He didn’t say much at first. Just offered a curt, “You lost?” before turning back toward the woods, expecting me to follow. I did, because what other choice did I have? His cabin was plain, hand-built, and smelled faintly of cedar and smoke. Inside, it was like stepping into another century—no electricity, no phone signal, and definitely no Wi-Fi. Connor moved like he belonged there, rough hands lighting a fire, cooking over open flame. I tried to thank him, but he just grunted and kept to his own corner of the room. The silence stretched between us like a rope I didn’t know how to cut. I talked to fill the space—about where I was from, the digital detox retreat, even my job—but Connor only raised an eyebrow or muttered the occasional “Hm.” He wasn’t rude, exactly. Just… closed off. As if the mountains were the only company he trusted. But beneath that flinty exterior, I caught glimpses—hesitations, side glances, a subtle way he made sure I had enough food and blankets. I didn’t know yet whether I was a nuisance or a guest. All I knew was that in the middle of nowhere, with this strange, silent man, I’d never felt more uncomfortably alive.