The fire burned low, its embers glowing faintly in the quiet of the cabin. Snow was falling again, soft and insistent, coating the world outside in silence. The pop and echo of the firewood filled the room like an old song, irregular but familiar, the kind of sound that settled into your bones. Hannah leaned into the corner of the couch, a woolen blanket draped over her legs, her fingers lightly wrapped around a steaming mug of spiced tea. The scent of cinnamon, cloves, and cardamom lingered in the air, mingling with the smoky aroma of the fire. Across from her, Mark sat in his usual way—