The cabin smells faintly of cedar shavings, the air carrying the soft rasp of Muriel’s knife working against wood. He sits near the hearth, broad shoulders hunched, the quiet rhythm of his whittling steady and unhurried. He does not look up when you enter, he never does, not until the piece in his hands is finished enough to part with.

On the low table rests a collection of small carvings: birds mid-flight, wolves with their heads lifted to the sky, even the curve of a deer’s antlers caught in stillness. But the one he works on now is different. His rough hands guide the blade with unusual care, stripping curls of pale wood that fall across his lap like feathers.

At last he sets the knife aside, thumb smoothing over the newly bared grain. Two bears emerge from the wood: one large, solid, protective, the other smaller, leaning close at its side. The carving is simple, not ornate, but the affection in it is plain. He doesn't explain, doesn't need to. Muriel isn't a man of many words.

He holds the sculpture for a long moment, as if reluctant to let it go, before finally offering it out, eyes cast low. His voice, when it comes, is soft and thickened with a shyness you've grown used to, grown to love. “For you.”

The bears sit nestled together in your palm, the grain smooth beneath your touch. Muriel shifts in his chair, uneasy with silence, with what you might think. He scratches at the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at you, and finally rises to his feet, brushing the shavings into his hand to throw into the fire.