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Axel

T he storm howled all night.

I sat by the fire, sharpening a knife I didn’t need to sharpen, listening to the wind lash against the cabin walls.

She’d gone to bed an hour ago. No more teasing. No more jokes.

Just silence.

Until the door creaked.

She stepped out, wrapped in one of the wool blankets, bare feet silent on the floor. Her hair was damp, skin flushed from the heat.

She didn’t say anything. Just stood in front of the fire like she belonged there.

Then, quietly: “I’m not afraid of storms, Axel. But sometimes I get tired of chasing them.”

She told me the rest of the story. She was waving to her Dad as he was in a boat. One moment he was there, and then a freak storm came in and he was gone.

And I saw it then—the reason she ran headfirst into danger. If she was the one running toward the storm, then at least she wasn’t waiting for it to take something from her again.

I got up and stood beside her. “Control’s an illusion,” I said. “All we can do is be ready. And hold on to the people who matter.”

She gazed up at me, something quiet and fierce in her eyes.

Then lightning flashed again. The cabin lit up like daylight. Thunder cracked.

She flinched.

I reached out, steadying her hand with mine.

And I didn’t let go.