I pull slowly down the long driveway leading to my family’s cabin.
The evergreens lining the drive stand tall, like nutcrackers wearing hats of snow, nodding as I pass.
The woods are thick and quiet, with slim dogwood branches sticking up from the wind-carved snowbanks.
I know, during the day, the dogwood branches will be a bright ruby red, vibrant against the white snow. And the snow will be sloped and swirled from all the wind whipping down the tree tunnel driveway leading to the cabin.
There aren’t any lights on at the cabin. In fact, the only light is the moon glistening off the snow and my headlights cutting through the dark.
My tires crunch over the snow on the—blessedly plowed—driveway. But I still drive slowly. The last thing I need is careening into the ditch while I’m scrooging Gabe.
My radio crackles, starting to lose the signal on the Christmas radio station I found. It’s one of those twenty-four seven deals, where it’s Christmas songs from Thanksgiving until the New Year. “Silent Night” cuts in and out, the singer’s voice warbling with static.
The loss of signal is because I’m in the middle of nowhere.
Sure, Romeo is twenty miles away, but that twenty miles is full of thick forests, marshes, mountains, caves, and so much no-man’s land that once you pass over the mountain and descend into the snow-covered valley, you wouldn’t know civilization was anywhere to be found.
My parents bought the cabin twenty-five years ago as a retreat. Summer hiking. Autumn bonfires. Winter cross-country skiing.
My family also comes out here every year from Boxing Day until New Year’s Day. Which means…the drive is kept plowed, the cabin is likely clean-ish, and of course, it’s empty.
Empty for four more days.
The cabin rises out of the snow, its roof covered with a layer of white, icicles lining the roofline, like frosting from a gingerbread house.
The cabin is square, the round brown logs that construct it give it a homey, rustic look. The windows are wide and the sills are lined with snow. A warm, happy feeling rushes over me.
I love this cabin. I can already smell the smoke from the fire, hear the crackle of the logs, and taste the homemade hot cocoa mix my mom keeps in the pantry. This place is a haven.
Now that I’ve seen it, there isn’t a doubt in my mind that it’s going to transform Gabe. No one can stay in the Fiorre family cabin, outside Romeo New York, and not feel the good in the world.
With that thought, I pull to a stop, put the car in park, and then turn off the engine. The stereo keeps playing, the music loud as I strain to hear…anything.
Is he awake?
Is he moving?
Was that a noise?
But no. I don’t hear anything but the chords of “Silent Night.”
So I take a breath, give myself a pep talk—you can do this, Miss Erma predicted this, you are saving Christmas—and then step out of my car.
The door hinges squeak loudly in the quiet. I slam it shut and the noise echoes off the snow and the ice.
The wind lets out a soft sigh, rustling the trees. The snowflakes, as small as stardust, float around me, lighting on my cheeks and nose, leaving cold little winter kisses.
I shiver. There isn’t any noise coming from the trunk.
The snow crunches beneath my feet as I walk around my car.
I stop in front of the trunk. I stand there, my insides twisting, my heart thumping, my breath rising in front of me, and then…I fling the trunk open.