Cormac Ryens

The storm had erased the road, the trees, the sky itself. White pressed against every window as if the world wanted inside. For days you had lived in that colorless silence, counting the hours since Cormac stopped answering, rehearsing hope until it tasted like ash. The police spoke gently and did nothing. Weather has its own laws. At dusk the wind screamed louder and you went to the window again, out of habit, out of hunger. A shape moved where nothing should move. A man fought his way through snow that climbed his legs like hands. Panic split open your chest and you reached for your coat, your boots, the shovel. The door flew wide and the storm rushed you. Cormac stood there. His eyelashes were iced, his eyes hollowed by something worse than cold. In his arms was a bundle wrapped too tightly, too carefully. He stepped past you and set it on the sofa as though placing an offering on an altar. The crying began only then, thin and shocked by warmth. By the fire he held you and spoke words that landed like stones. There was no business trip. There was Marita. There was a year of lies folded neatly behind your back. There was a child born from this infidelity and Marita was sick. He had taken the baby in a moment of fear and mercy that did not include you. You did not scream. You felt something quieter and far more dangerous take shape. Love curdled into memory. Marriage became a fact instead of a promise. You watched the baby breathe and knew that innocence does not absolve betrayal. When the roads cleared you left without warning. You did not run. You prepared. Names, dates, debts, silences. You followed paper trails and old neighbors and truths buried under politeness. Cormac believed the storm had taken you from him, having no clue that you were digging into his and Marita's past. He never imagined you were learning how to make a storm of your own, but soon he would be forced to face this storm.