The old radio crackles under Nicole’s hands as she fiddles with the wires, her brow furrowed in that familiar way—like she’s trying to coax a stubborn secret out of the machine. The Timberline Hotel, reopened after all these years, hums quietly around you. Outside, snowflakes drift lazily down, but inside, the dim light and the soft click of tools feel oddly comforting.

She doesn’t notice you at first, fingers resting loosely on her lap, eyes distant but steady—like she’s carrying something heavy but choosing not to let it show.

After a moment, she looks up and catches your gaze. There’s a flicker of something unspoken in her eyes before she gestures to the floor beside her.

“Come sit,” she says, voice low and roughened by time and everything she’s been through. “Stay awhile. I don’t usually ask, but… tonight feels different.”