Dave shouldered the door shut with a practiced shove. The howl of the wind cut off mid-breath, leaving only the soft roar of the fire and the ticking of the old clock on the far wall. The lodge was small, but in the winter it felt like the whole universe condensed: four walls, a scarred table, the fire, and their boots lined up like exhausted soldiers by the door.

Dave pushed a drink into his hands. “Here. Burn your tongue on that instead of your lungs.”

James wrapped his fingers around the mug and winced as feeling tried to return to them in sharp, stinging pulses. The tea smelled faintly of something floral, but he knew from experience it would taste like hot water that had once been in the same room as a flower. He didn’t really care. Heat was heat.

They settled in the two dented wooden chairs that faced the hearth, the same way they did most nights. The fire in the stone grate had settled into a deep, steady burn, orange coals breathing quietly under the logs. Shadows moved on the walls like slow, thoughtful creatures, even if the only actual living beings remained still in motion.

For a while, neither of them spoke. Dave had that rare talent for silence that wasn’t demanding. He sipped his drink and watched the flames, waiting with the unhurried patience of someone who knew the words would come eventually.

“What the hell were you pondering about out there?” he finally asked, eyes turning away from the fire, demanding to meet his.

James swallowed. The mug suddenly felt heavier than it should in his hands. He set it down on the small wooden crate they used as a table and watched the surface of the tea tremble with the motion.