He moved to the stove and stirred water until it steamed, then brought the cup back.
“Drink,” he said.
She stared at it like it was a trick.
Eli held it steady.
She took a small sip, then another.
Her hands shook.
Eli sat in the chair beside the bed and stayed there as the night deepened.
The storm outside roared and slapped the cabin walls like angry fists. Snow hissed against the windowpane. The wind found every crack it could and tried to squeeze in.
Eli listened to the fragile sound of her breathing like it was the only thing in the world that mattered.
For three days, she was lost in fever.
On the first day she drifted in and out, sweating under blankets, teeth chattering even when her skin burned. She cried out in her sleep—broken sounds that didn’t form words, the kind of noise a person makes when their mind is running from something their body can’t escape.
On the second day, she clutched at her dress with both fists as if it was the only thing anchoring her to the world. Eli tried once to ease her grip so he could adjust the blanket, and her hands snapped tighter, nails digging into cloth.
He stopped.
He learned quickly.
Whatever that dress meant to her, it was bigger than warmth.
Bigger than comfort.
Maybe bigger than survival itself.
On the third day, the fever peaked. Her face flushed, then went pale. Her lips cracked. Eli spooned broth into her mouth in small amounts, watched her swallow like it took effort, watched her breathing for signs it might slip away.
He never left her side.
He slept in his chair with his boots still on, head tipped back, waking every hour to check the fire, to check her skin, to listen.
And in the quiet hours, when the cabin felt like a small island surrounded by howling white, Eli’s mind kept sliding back to Sarah.
Read more on the next page ⬇️⬇️⬇️
