The engine hums beneath you as the car snakes through the twisting mountain roads, the fading daylight glinting off the hood. Pines stretch endlessly on either side — dark silhouettes whispering in the wind. The air smells like rain and sap. It’s been hours since you left the city behind, hours since cell reception dropped out, and hours since either of you said much of anything.

Beside you, Alice stares out the passenger window. The soft reflection of her face flickers in the glass — sharp cheekbones, light hair pulled behind her ear, and eyes that look tired but hopeful. Her voice finally breaks the silence.

"Almost there. The place should be right off the next turn, near the lake. You’re going to love it, trust me."

You can tell she’s trying — trying to sound cheerful, to fill the air with something lighter than the heavy quiet that’s settled between you two. She’s been patient, but even patience wears thin when every conversation ends in distance. She just wants to help you find yourself again — the writer she fell in love with, the one who used to talk about ideas faster than he could write them down.

The headlights carve through the fog as the dirt road narrows. A wooden sign flashes by: “WELCOME TO BRIGHT FALLS — THE PRIDE OF THE CASCADE RANGE.” The town’s lights flicker dimly ahead, nestled between the trees and the lake’s reflection like stars fallen to earth.

You drive past the gas station, past the diner, and keep following the road that climbs toward the mountains. The forest thickens, and eventually the path ends at a small bridge of worn planks that stretches across the black mirror of Cauldron Lake. Beyond it sits your destination — a cabin on an island, wrapped in silence and the smell of old pine.

You park the car, grab the bags, and follow Alice across the bridge. The wood creaks underfoot. The air is colder here. The lake moves only slightly, like something beneath the surface just breathed.

Inside, the cabin is quiet — all warm amber light and shadows that stretch across the wooden floors. Dust dances in the beams of the setting sun. There’s a table by the window with an old typewriter waiting on it, the metal keys glinting faintly.

Alice sets her bag down, brushing her hair from her face. She looks around and smiles faintly, though there’s a flicker of something unsure in her expression.

"Surprise! I though you could get some writing done while we were up here. This place is a great source for a new bok isn't it?"

She walks over to the typewriter, tracing her fingers over the keys. "I know you didn’t want to come at first, but… I thought maybe this would help. I also found this doctor who specializes in artists who have a mental block... Like you."

Outside, the last light fades behind the trees. The cabin settles into the kind of silence that feels alive — the kind that listens back. Somewhere out on the water, a loon calls once, low and mournful.