Morning came slow. The light that crept through the curtains was pale and cold, carrying the scent of rain-soaked wood and clean air. The fire had burned out, leaving a thin trail of smoke curling from the ashes. Lily stirred first, blinking into the soft light. For a few seconds she didn’t remember where she was. Then she saw Ethan, asleep beside the fireplace, one arm across his chest, his face peaceful in the quiet.

She stretched her legs and sat up. The silence felt heavy but calm. The storm was gone. All that remained was the faint dripping of water from the roof and the call of distant birds. She stood, wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, and walked to the window. Outside, the forest looked washed and new. Mist hung low between the trees, and the ground shone like silver.

Ethan woke with a small groan, rubbing his eyes. “You watching the apocalypse out there?”

She smiled. “Just the after part.”

He sat up, hair a mess, voice rough from sleep. “It’s quiet.”

“For once,” she said.

He leaned back against the wall. “I don’t remember the last time I slept through a whole night.”

“That’s because you’re always waiting for someone to crash through the ER doors.”

He laughed softly. “And you’re always waiting to stop them from bleeding.”

She turned to look at him. “Not today.”

“Not today,” he agreed.

They found coffee in a tin near the sink. The cabin’s small stove took a while to heat, but soon the smell filled the room. Lily poured the coffee into mismatched mugs and handed him one. He took a long sip, winced, and said, “Tastes like burnt earth.”

“It’s perfect,” she said, grinning.

They sat on the porch steps, the steam from their cups curling into the morning air. The sky was breaking open, sunlight spilling in thin lines through the clouds. Below them, the wet road curved down toward the town.

“So,” she said, “where to next?”

He thought for a moment. “North. Maybe the redwoods. I used to go there with my family when I was a kid. My brother would try to climb the biggest trees and always get stuck halfway.”

She smiled. “Sounds like him.”

“You’d have liked him,” he said.

“I think I already do.”

They packed their things and checked out around noon. The woman at the desk waved them off with a smile, telling them to drive safe and watch for rockslides. The dog barked once as they left.

The road out of Cedar Hollow twisted through the forest. The sunlight turned the wet leaves gold. Every few miles they passed small cabins, smoke rising from chimneys. Lily rolled the window down and let the cool air in. Her hair blew across her face. Ethan glanced over and smiled but didn’t say anything.

After a while, they stopped at a gas station that looked like it hadn’t changed since the seventies. A man with a weathered face filled their tank while Ethan checked the tires. Lily went inside for snacks and came back with two sodas and a bag of chips.

“This your idea of lunch?” Ethan asked.

“Don’t ruin it with logic,” she said.

He laughed. “Fair.”

They drove again, the road stretching farther between towns. For hours, it was just them, the hum of the engine, and the radio fading in and out. Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they didn’t. The silence between them had stopped feeling awkward. It had become its own kind of comfort.

In the afternoon, they reached a lookout point where the land dropped away to reveal a wide valley. The view was endless—fields, rivers, and the faint shimmer of distant roads. They got out and stood side by side, the wind tugging at their clothes.

“This is why people drive,” Lily said softly.

Ethan nodded. “To remember how big the world is.”

She looked at him. “You really needed that reminder?”

“Maybe,” he said. “After years in the ER, everything starts to feel small. The walls. The routines. Even the people.”

She understood that. “And now?”

He turned to her. “Now it doesn’t.”

They stayed until the wind grew colder. Back in the car, Lily leaned her head against the window. The rhythm of the road was starting to feel like a heartbeat.

Near sunset, they passed through a small town with a faded sign that read Welcome to Haven Creek. The streets were quiet, a few kids riding bikes, a man sweeping outside a store. They stopped at a small inn with a porch wrapped in ivy. A woman in her fifties greeted them with a smile and a set of keys. “Room seven,” she said. “Breakfast starts at eight. If you need anything, knock twice. I live next door.”

The room was simple but clean. One window, two twin beds, a shelf lined with old books. Lily sat on one of the beds and kicked off her shoes. “I like this place,” she said.

Ethan nodded. “It feels honest.”

They went out again to find dinner. The only restaurant open was a small bar with music playing low. They sat at the counter, ordered soup and sandwiches. The bartender poured them each a glass of cider on the house.

“You two passing through?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Ethan said. “Heading north.”

“Nice drive,” the man said. “Good for thinking.”

When they left, the sky was deep blue and full of stars. Lily stopped in the middle of the street and looked up. “I forget to look at these,” she said.

Ethan followed her gaze. “I used to know their names. My brother made me learn them. I think I forgot most.”

“Name one,” she said.

He pointed. “That’s Orion. I remember because he said it looked like someone holding their breath forever.”

She smiled. “That’s a nice way to think about it.”

Back at the inn, they left the window open. The air smelled of rain and pine. Lily lay on her bed, listening to the night sounds—the hum of crickets, the creak of floorboards, Ethan turning a page from one of the old books.

“You still awake?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah,” she said.

“Thanks for coming with me,” he said again. “I don’t think I would’ve made it this far alone.”

“You would have,” she said. “You just wouldn’t have talked as much.”

He chuckled. “Probably true.”

She turned toward the window. “Ethan?”

“Yeah?”

“I think you’re starting to breathe again.”

He didn’t answer for a moment. Then she heard him say, “Yeah. I think so too.”

The stars above Haven Creek shimmered like quiet promises. The road ahead was still long, but neither of them felt lost anymore.