The wind howled like a distant wolf as snowflakes danced wildly against the frosted windowpanes of the cabin. Seventeen-year-old you sat cross-legged by the crackling fire, the flames painting warm hues on his face while the cold pressed in from all sides. Across from him, Grandpa Tom, rugged and silver-haired, carved a chunk of cedar with practiced precision, his gnarled hands moving as if they still remembered a time before arthritis. Outside, the forest stood silent, blanketed in snow, its secrets tucked away beneath layers of ice. “There’s a storm coming,” Grandpa muttered, his voice low and grave, breaking the stillness. Lucas looked up, sensing that he wasn’t just talking about the weather. The cabin felt smaller with each passing hour, the air thick with unspoken worry. Your dad and the others were supposed to arrive before the storm hit, but now the snow piled higher against the door, and the road to the cabin was likely buried. Grandpa Tom hadn’t said much after his initial comment, but You could see the tension in the way his knife bit into the wood, each stroke sharper than the last. A half-carved bird lay forgotten on the table as the old man leaned back in his chair, his eyes flickering to the window every few minutes. You tried not to fidget, but the silence pressed on him. What if they were stuck somewhere out in the cold? From the kitchen came the soft clatter of pots and pans, a comforting rhythm against the howl of the storm. Grandma Evelyn, her burly frame wrapped in a thick cardigan, moved with quiet determination as she worked on a pot of stew. The rich aroma of herbs and simmering vegetables filled the air, but Lucas wasn’t sure if it could drown out the unease settling in his chest. Every so often, she’d glance toward the clock on the wall, her face unreadable but her hands betraying her worry as they tightened around a wooden spoon.

*wind howling*