Page 4 of Holly and Ivar
Thirty minutes later, they reached the trailhead.Ivar opened the truck door, and Al leaped inside, curling immediately onto the seat.He paused for a moment, listening to the soft rush of wind through the pines.
At moments like this, the forest seemed magical.The symmetry of its design, the web of connection, the quiet persistence of life under the snow.If that wasn’t magic, what was?
He climbed into the truck and turned the key.The heater coughed to life.Then, as the windshield began to clear, a flash of red caught his eye.
A cardinal landed on the hood.
It hopped up to the windshield, a tiny sprig of evergreen clasped in its beak.For a heartbeat, it looked directly at him.Then it laid the branch gently on the glass and flew off into the trees.
Ivar stared after it.
Ten years ago, on his worst day in California, a cardinal had done the exact same thing, depositing an evergreen sprig on his car as if delivering a message.
He’d packed his things and driven back to Vermont the very next day.
And now, another cardinal.Another sprig.Another message?
He shifted the truck into gear, glancing at the sprig on the windshield.“Right,” he murmured.“Definitely losing it.”But then he placed the truck in park, rolled down the window, reached out for the sprig, and placed it in his pocket.
3
are you elfing serious?
Ivar
Withhisheadstillreeling from the cardinal and the branch, Ivar dropped Al off at home, then headed to the Maple Mug Coffee House.He needed to be surrounded by people doing tangible, ordinary things.He needed grounding.
A maple scone wouldn’t hurt either.
As soon as he stepped inside, he knew he’d made the right call.Warm air wrapped around him, carrying the scent of espresso, cinnamon, and maple syrup.A jaunty French cafe tune with an accordion floated above the low hum of conversation.A few locals waved.Emma Tremblay was behind the counter, humming along while steaming milk.
“You look like a man in need of sugar.Here,” she said, sliding a mug toward him.“I saw you coming from across the street.”
“You’re the best,” he said, taking a sip.“Caffeine first, then sugar.One maple scone, please.”
She smiled, plating the scone.“Sit anywhere—I know you and George both like that booth in the corner, and I’m afraid he got there first today.”
Sure enough, George Keating occupied the corner seat by the window, hunched over the daily crossword.His pencil hovered in mid-air.“Nine-letter word for stubborn,” he muttered as Ivar passed.
“Difficult,” Ivar offered.
George grunted, which in George’s language meantthank you.
Ivar carried his coffee and scone to a small table near the fire.Mim Daley was pinning new flyers to the community board—announcements layered over lost-and-found notes and photos from last year’s Christmas Carnival.One new note caught his eye:
MISSING: one blue fox pattern left mitten.Beside it, someone wroteand my dignityand had doodled a fox smiling beside it.
He smiled, took a bite of his scone, and texted his sister.
Ivar: Got some great photos.I’ll send them later.
Liv: [thumbs up emoji]
The scone was perfectly warm, buttery, and sweet enough to remind him there were still simple pleasures in the world.
He’d barely taken another bite when a voice interrupted him.
“Well, hey there, Mr.Park Ranger.”
