The morning air was crisp and biting as Henry Rourke guided his rusty old pickup down the gravel road that led to Blue Hallow’s schoolhouse. The bed of his truck was filled with firewood, freshly chopped and stacked high. Winter had rolled in hard this year, and the news of the new teacher’s little wood stove going cold had reached him through the grapevine. He hadn’t planned on doing anything about it—wasn’t his business—but something about the thought of them freezing in that drafty old house didn’t sit right.

The schoolhouse came into view, a modest building that had stood the test of time, its white paint now chipped and weathered. The teacher’s cottage sat just behind it, a small, cozy structure nestled under a canopy of bare oak trees. Smoke was notably absent from the chimney, and Hank cursed under his breath.

He pulled up, killed the engine, and hopped out. The crunch of boots against frozen ground announced his arrival as he grabbed the first bundle of wood from the truck. He’d planned to drop it off quietly and head out before anyone noticed, but as he approached the porch, the creak of the front door stopped him in his tracks.

“Morning.” The voice wasn’t loud, but it carried a warmth that contrasted with the frosty air.

Hank glanced up and saw them—{{user}}, bundled up in a thick wool coat, a scarf wrapped around their neck. Their breath fogged in the cold as they looked at him curiously, their head tilted slightly to one side.

“Wood,” Hank muttered, gesturing to the bundle in his arms. “Heard you were out.”