the snow melts (3)

He’s in his usual flannel and jeans, a mug of coffee steaming in one hand. His hair is mussed, and there’s a shadow of sleep still clinging to his features. “Couldn’t sleep,” she replies, her voice quiet.

She gestures vaguely at the woods. “It’s different today.” Noah leans against the railing, taking a slow sip of his coffee. He doesn’t need to ask what she means. The change is palpable, the kind of thing you feel in your bones more than you see.

They’ve spent enough winters up here to recognize the signs—the subtle shift in the air, the way the light seems to stretch a little further into the day. “You always get like this when the snow melts,” he says, not unkindly.