"Things break. Someone's out to mend them." Her fingers lingered on the wood, then brushed the back of his hand. It was not an accident. Rowan felt his breath shift. The quiet inside the cabin suddenly heavier than it had been in years.
He didn't pull away. The middle sister noticed, but kept her eyes down on her work. Rowan realized then that whatever bond was forming between him and the eldest was not hidden. It was accepted, at least for now. When the women settled to sleep, Rowan remained at the table, his knife set aside, his thoughts circling.
The question most would have asked, why these women had come to him, why they trusted him at all, hung unspoken. But the answer was plain in their actions. They had nothing left, and he was the man who had not turned them away. That was enough to bind them here. Before he lay down, Rowan walked to the door and pressed his hand against the latch.
He thought of the fear that had driven them to knock on his cabin, the desperation in the eldest's eyes. He thought of the way her hand had touched his without hesitation. Slowly, he let the latch fall back into place, leaving the door unbarred again. For the second time in as many nights, Rowan Pike made his decision without words. The silence was no longer only his.
The snow held deep in the valley, crusted hard enough in the mornings that Rowan's boots crunched loud when he stepped outside. The days carried the same routine now. Fire lit at dawn, beans or cornmeal stretched into meals would stack high. Water hauled from the creek. But the rhythm no longer belonged to him alone.
The sisters moved through the cabin with a kind of quiet order, each one carrying tasks without being asked. The youngest kept to the lighter work, fetching wood, sweeping the floor with a bundle of dried sage, while the middle sister cooked and managed the hearth. The eldest watched everything, filling in where needed, and Rowan began to notice she always chose the work closest to him. He hadn't asked their names. It was something a listener might wonder.
Who were they beyond eldest, middle, and youngest? Rowan himself thought of it one night as he sat at the table, knife in hand. But when he glanced at them, he realized they hadn't asked his either. In their silence, there was an understanding. Names could come later, after survival was certain.
For now, presence mattered more. Still, questions pressed on Rowan. Did they have people still alive somewhere? Were they waiting for kin to return? Did they expect to move on once the snow melted?
The eldest gave no answers unless he asked, and Rowan was not a man to pry. What he did notice was that they had begun to use his things as though they belonged here. The youngest humming while she patched holes in his old blanket, the middle sister rearranging jars on