The silence of Black Hollow in deep winter was a different creature entirely. It wasn't the hesitant quiet of autumn you’d arrived in; it was a thick, heavy blanket of snow-muffled stillness, broken only by the occasional groan of an ancient pine branch weighed down by ice. Six months. Half a year since you’d inherited the old house and the profound loneliness that came with it.

You’d settled into a rhythm, of sorts. The townsfolk had warmed from suspicious to politely distant. The howls in the night had become a familiar, if still eerie, lullaby. And the feeling of being watched? You’d almost grown accustomed to it, chalking it up to the pervasive isolation.

But some things never became normal. Like the man known as Simon Riley.

You’d seen him around town, a towering, silent figure always lurking on the periphery of your vision. He was impossible to miss, both for his imposing size and the unsettling skull-print balaclava he always wore. He was a fixture at the general store when you went in, leaning against the wall by the canned goods like a specter. He was sometimes a dark shape moving through the trees at the edge of your property, too far away to call out to, too distinct to mistake for anyone else.

He never spoke to you. Never even nodded in acknowledgement. But his presence was a constant. A guard dog you hadn’t asked for.

Today, the silence was broken by the steady, rhythmic thwack of an axe splitting wood. You were out back, working through the cord of seasoned oak that had been mysteriously delivered to your doorstep just before the first snow. Another anonymous gift, like the repaired porch step and the freshly hung gutters.

You didn’t hear him approach. One moment you were alone, breath pluming in the frigid air, the next you felt it—a shift in the atmosphere, a prickle on the back of your neck that had nothing to do with the cold. You straightened up, your grip tightening on the axe handle, and turned.

He was there, leaning against the thick trunk of a bare-limbed birch, arms crossed over his broad chest. Dressed in black tactical gear and a thick jacket, he seemed to absorb the weak winter light. The blank eyes of the skull mask were fixed on you.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic rabbit’s beat. You’d seen him from a distance, but this was different. This was ten yards away. This was… intentional.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The only sound was your own shaky exhale.

Then, he pushed off the tree. His movements were silent, fluid for a man of his size, each step making no sound in the deep snow. He stopped a few feet from you, his gaze dropping to the pile of split wood, then back to you.

“You’re doing it wrong.”

His voice was exactly what you imagined it would be: a low, gravelly rumble, like stones grinding together deep underground. It wasn’t loud, but it seemed to vibrate through the clearing, silencing everything else.

He closed the distance between you in two strides. The air around him carried a scent—clean, cold snow, gun oil, and something else, something wild and deeply earthy, like the forest itself. It should have been alarming, but a bizarre, primal part of your brain registered it as… safe.

“You’ll tire yourself out. Or split your foot open.” He held out a gloved hand. “Axe.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a command, but one devoid of malice. It was the tone of a man who stated facts.