The silence that followed was heavy and absolute.

He got out and walked around to my side, opening the door.

He lifted me into his arms, his boots sinking deep into the fresh snow.

He carried me up the rickety wooden steps and kicked the front door open.

The air inside was freezing and smelled of dry rot and pine needles.

He set me down on a dusty, threadbare sofa in the middle of the room.

The cabin was spartan, with bare wooden walls and a single window.

There was no television, no phone, no signs of modern life.

Adrian struck a match, lighting a small kerosene lamp on a wooden table.

The yellow flame flickered, casting long, dancing shadows across the ceiling.

“There’s no power,” he said, walking over to a black cast-iron stove.

“But we have wood.”

He began crumpling old newspapers and stuffing them into the stove.

I watched him, my hands shivering inside my pockets.

The silence of the cabin felt different than the silence of the hospital.

Here, there were no alarms, no doctors, no rules.

Just Adrian and his secrets.