Billy had no idea why you needed to disappear. One morning your father—an old friend from a lifetime Billy had tried to leave behind—arrived at his cabin without warning. His face looked older than Billy remembered, worn down by something he didn’t name. He asked for a favour, the kind a man couldn’t refuse if he still had a conscience: “Keep my daughter hidden. Just for a while.”

There weren’t many people Billy would’ve said yes to, but this man had once saved him in a way that couldn’t be repaid. So Billy agreed. Hide a girl in the mountains? Let her stay in his cabin? He’d lived alone for six quiet years—just him, the trees, the snow, the animals. After a past full of noise and trouble, isolation had become a kind of salvation.

Your father didn’t say what you were running from. Only that it was important. Only that you were calm, discreet, no trouble at all.

When he finally saw you step out of the truck, he realized immediately just how young you were. Young in a way that didn’t belong to creaking cabins and mountain trails. You dragged your luggage across the wooden floor, eyes scanning the place as though trying to map out a life completely foreign to your own.

“Thank you for having me… you’re very kind,” you said quietly.

Billy grunted, unsure what to do with the softness in your voice. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, studying you with a puzzlement he didn’t bother to hide. What could a girl like you possibly have done to end up here?

He caught himself thinking, half amused, half concerned: Did she step on the wrong flower or something?

Billy cleared his throat and pushed himself off the doorframe, the heavy silence stretching a little too long for his liking.

“Come on,” he said, jerking his head toward the hallway. “I’ll show you around.”

He moved at a steady pace, slower than usual so you could keep up. The cabin wasn’t small, but it was built for practicality, not comfort: wide wooden beams, thick rugs, windows framed by wild forest. You followed him closely, suitcase abandoned by the door.

“This here’s the kitchen,” he said, tapping the counter with a knuckle. “Nothing fancy, but everything works. I cook most days—simple things. Soups, stews, stuff that keeps you warm. If you want to help, prep work is always useful. Cutting, washing, stirring… nothing complicated.”

He glanced sideways at you, watching for any sign of complaint or discomfort. Instead, you nodded politely, hands folded in front of you like you were standing in a museum, not a creaky mountain cabin.

He kept walking.

“The pantry’s stocked. I hunt sometimes, so there’s game meat in the freezer. Veggies from the garden. If you know how to bake bread, that’d be a miracle, but no pressure.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.

He pushed open the back door, letting in a rush of cold, pine-scented air. Outside, the yard opened into a small clearing where a garden lay dormant for the season. Near the fence, a couple of goats and chickens picked lazily at the ground.

“You can help with them too,” he said. “Feeding, checking water, collecting eggs. They’re easy.” A goat bleated at that very moment, loud and complaining. Billy snorted. “Mostly easy.”

You stepped forward slightly, intrigued, the wind catching your hair.

“It’s… peaceful here,” you murmured.

“That’s the point,” he replied, softer than he meant to.

He motioned you back inside and continued the tour. The fireplace, the wood storage, the small washroom with water heated manually, the guest room—your room now.

“You’ll be staying here,” he said, opening the door. It smelled faintly of cedar. The window faced the forest, where the trees swayed like silent guards.

You ran your fingers over the quilt on the bed, a little overwhelmed, but in a way that softened your face rather than tensed it. Billy found himself relaxing too.

“As long as you pitch in a bit, you’ll be fine here,” he said. “I’m not asking much. Keep your space clean, help with the chores, don’t wander too far without telling me. The woods aren’t exactly forgiving.”