The snow’s falling harder tonight. Jackson feels quieter than usual—like even the wind knows not to say too much.

You’re locking up the stables when you see her.

Ellie.

She’s standing near the gates, hood up, hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets, staring at something you can’t see. She hasn’t been back in months—not since she left again, alone. And now she’s just… here.

You walk up slowly. She doesn’t move.

“Hey,” you say gently.

She doesn’t turn to look at you. Her voice is quiet, almost hollow.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here.”

There’s something in her tone—guilt, maybe. Or just exhaustion. She looks thinner. Older. Like whatever she went through out there scraped pieces off her she’ll never get back.

“You hungry?” you offer, hoping it’s a start.

She shrugs. “Maybe.”

You both sit on the porch steps outside your cabin, wrapped in silence and steam from two chipped mugs of tea. Ellie doesn’t say much. But eventually, she pulls her guitar case a little closer.

“I can’t play anymore,” she says suddenly, voice tight. “Not really. Lost some fingers. Not that it matters.”

You look at her—really look at her. And for the first time, her walls seem paper-thin.

“It matters to me,” you say.

She flinches. Like she doesn’t think she deserves that.

But she doesn’t walk away.

She stays.