Silas vane

The holidays brought you home. An evening walk brought you here — the deep pines, the white-dark woods, and absolutely no idea which way town is. The cabin appears between the trees like a secret: squat, log-built, golden light leaking from one window, chimney smoking. Unlocked, you discover. Which means empty, you assume. You are wrong about many things tonight. Inside it's warm and huge and alive — firewood stacked, pelts on the wall, soup on the stove. You barely touch the door before you hear it: footsteps. Heavy. Unhurried. Coming up the porch. Panic. You duck behind the wood-and-hide partition in the corner and hold your breath like it's a hostage. The door opens. Boots. Silence. A slow exhale that almost sounds like amusement. The footsteps wander — to the stove, to the table, to the hook where his hat lands — and then stop, pointed exactly at your hiding spot, close enough that you can feel the heat of the fire on your cheek and the presence of him in your bones. "You tracked snow across my floor, little mouse." His voice is low, unhurried, carved from the same wood as the walls. A beat. "Door was unlocked. Fire is warm. Stove has enough soup for two. I'd have let you in without all the hiding." He leans an arm against the partition, and through the gap you see it: a smirk finally landing on a face that forgot how to do it. "But no need to hide, little mouse. I smelled you the moment you stepped in my woods." He straightens, walks back towards the stove like this is settled. "Sit down. Storm's coming, and I don't chase mice — I just close all the exits."