11: The Time Between

      The afternoon light pours lazily through the kitchen windows, warm and almost golden. It settles across the wooden table, the counters, the floor—everything softened by it. I hold the mug between my hands, close to my chest letting the heat sink into my palms as I take a slow sip.

      

      Caramel. Sweet and familiar.

      

      Mariel really outdid herself this time. The latte tastes exactly the way I like it—warm, comforting, just sweet enough to feel like a small reward for surviving the day. I sigh softly, letting my shoulders drop as I lean back in the chair.

      

      For a moment, everything feels normal.

      

      The house is quiet in that gentle, lived-in way. Somewhere down the hall, a door opens and closes. Footsteps pass, unhurried. Outside, birds chirp faintly, their sounds drifting in through a slightly open window. The air smells clean, faintly of coffee and baked bread.

      

      I breathe in, slow and steady.

      

      Then my gaze drifts to the window.

      

      The forest stretches endlessly beyond the glass, dark green and damp. The ground is muddy, scattered with fallen leaves. Sunlight filters through bare branches, catching on wet bark and moss. It’s peaceful in its own way—alive, quietly moving forward.

      

      I frown.

      

       Wait…

      

      Something feels… off.

      

      I lean closer to the window, scanning the trees, the ground, the edges of the path where I remember white once blanketed everything. My breath slows.

      

      There’s no snow.

      

      No frost clinging to the branches. No pale dusting on the earth. No snow piles on the ground. No white anywhere at all—just wet soil and early hints of green pushing through.

      

      My stomach immediately drops.

      

      “That’s… strange,” I murmur, more to myself than anyone else.

      

      Mariel hums from the counter as she wipes down a plate. “What is, dear?”

      

      I don’t take my eyes off the forest. “It’s not snowing anymore.”

      

      The words feel heavier than they should.

      

      Mariel stills.

      

      When she speaks again, her voice is gentle—careful, even. “No. It hasn’t been for a while.”

      

      Slowly, I turn toward her. “But it was snowing when I…” My voice trails off.

      

      When I ran.

      When I fell.

      When everything went dark.

      

      I swallow. “How long has it been?”

      

      Mariel sets the cloth aside and walks over, pulling out the chair across from me. She sits so we’re eye level, folding her hands neatly on the table.

      

      “You were going in and out of consciousness for quite some time,” she says softly. 

      

      “At first, it was touch and go. Some days you’d wake up for a few minutes. Other days, you wouldn’t open your eyes at all.”

      

      My fingers tighten around the mug. “How long?” I ask again, my pulse beginning to race.

      

      She hesitates—just a breath.

      

      “Several weeks,” she says gently. “Nearly two months, if I’m being honest.”

      

      The room doesn’t spin, but something inside me does.

      

      “Two months?” My voice comes out thin.

      

      Mariel nods. “Your body needed it. You were injured, exhausted, and very cold. Healing isn’t fast when everything shuts down at once.”

      

       Two months.

      

      The words echo in my head, hollow and heavy.

      

      My mom’s face flashes through my mind—her phone in her hand, worry etched deep into her expression. Aurora’s excited messages about coming home. Christmas plans. Promises I made and never kept.

      

      “Oh no,” I whisper. “My mom. Aurora. They must think I just—” My chest tightens. “They must be worried sick.”

      

      Mariel reaches across the table and places her hand over mine. Her touch is warm, steady.

      

      “You don’t need to worry about that,” she says firmly, kindly. “They’re being taken care of. They won’t be suspicious. They’re safe.”

      

      I search her face. “You’re sure?”

      

      She smiles, small but sincere. “Very sure.”

      

      That helps. A little.

      

      I lean back in my chair, staring up at the ceiling as I try to process the missing time. Weeks of my life just… gone. I was here, breathing, healing—but not living.

      

      And then another thought crashes into me.

      

      Work.

      

      “Oh.” My breath stutters. “My job.”

      

      Mariel tilts her head. “Your job?”

      

      “I didn’t call. I didn’t email. I just… disappeared.” I shake my head slowly. 

      

      “They probably thought I quit. Or worse.” A weak, humorless laugh escapes me. “I’m definitely fired.”

      

      The thought should upset me more than it does. Instead, it lands with a dull finality, like something I’d already lost before I even realized it mattered.

      

      Two months is too long to be silent.

      

      I picture my desk cleared out. My name crossed off schedules. Someone else sitting where I used to be.

      

      Mariel squeezes my hand. “I know it feels overwhelming,” she says gently. “But one thing at a time, all right?”

      

      I nod, though my throat feels tight.

      

      A soft knock sounds from the doorway.

      

      Lucien steps into the kitchen, his presence calm and unassuming. He pauses when he sees us, reading the tension easily.

      

      “Am I interrupting?” he asks.

      

      Mariel shakes her head. “She’s just realizing how long it’s been.”

      

      Lucien’s expression softens as he turns to me. “That can be a lot to take in.”

      

      I nod slowly. “It feels like the world kept moving while I… stopped.”

      

      “It did,” he says honestly. “But that doesn’t mean you were forgotten.”

      

      I glance up at him. “My mom. My best friend. They’re really okay?”

      

      “Yes,” he says without hesitation. “We made sure of it.”

      

      “And my job?” I ask quietly.

      

      Lucien pauses, choosing his words carefully. “That may take time to sort out. But right now, your recovery comes first.”

      

      I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

      

      I turn back toward the window. The forest looks so different now—less frozen, less suspended in time. Like it moved on without me.

      

      I take another sip of my caramel latte, though my hands tremble slightly. The sweetness feels almost surreal against the weight pressing down on my chest.

      

      “Two months,” I murmur again.

      

      Mariel gives my hand one last gentle squeeze. 

      “You’re awake now,” she says softly. “That’s what matters.”

      

      I nod.

      

       It’s no wonder why Lucien wouldn’t let me go out. He was not trying to lock me up in here.

       It was literally for own good. My body was not strong enough for that.

      

       And I just … misunderstood everything and doubted both him and Mariel but they have done nothing but good for me all this time— never thanked them properly.

      

       Now that I think about it, I may here people moving about in the house, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone else other that Lucien and Mariel. They were probably trying to minimize interaction with me to let me recover.

      

       I heave a sigh in hopes of composing myself even just a little bit. I make a mental note to myself to make sure to remember to thank Lucien and Mariel, as well as all the people in this house.

      

      Still, as I watch sunlight filter through damp branches and bare trees, one thought keeps circling in my mind—quiet, heavy, impossible to ignore this lump in my throat.

      

      If my favorite time of the year… winter is already gone…

      

      How much else did I miss?