The Fractured  Melody Excerpt

She woke to quiet.

Not the muffled hush of snowfall, not the slow percussion of ice ticking against the windowpanes—but real silence. The kind that came after. That rare, crystalline stillness when the world had finally stopped breathing, and everything left behind felt too delicate to touch.

The storm had finally stopped.

Dragonfly blinked up at the ceiling beams above her bed, tracing the slow drift of woodsmoke wafting into the rafters. Beside her, Collin still slept—warm, tangled, utterly unbothered by the change. One arm slung across her ribs, his face buried in the back of her neck, breath soft against her skin. She didn’t move. Just let herself feel the shape of him, the weight of his leg draped over hers, the peaceful security of the last two weeks pressed against her spine.

Two weeks of snow—of wind and whiteout and the world sealed shut.

At first, she hadn’t minded. The snow had come in waves, each one heavier than the last, until even the path to the well vanished under thick drifts and the forest beyond became a pale blur of swirling white. They were snowed in, properly. Trapped in her little treehouse, tucked against the cold with wool blankets and poetry and each other.

And for a while—it had been perfect.

They had cooked and kissed and slept and laughed.

The days had folded gently into one another, blissful as new fallen snow. Collin split firewood in the mornings, sleeves rolled and breath steaming in the cold, his body moving with purpose she never tired of watching. She would call him in when his cheeks flushed red and his knuckles went raw, and he’d arrive with the smell of cedar and frost clinging to him, eyes bright, grin lazy. Sometimes, he’d corner her by the stove, pressing her back against the table with cold fingers and colder lips, just to make her squeal. Then he’d wrap his arms around her, burying his face in the crook of her neck like it was the only place he could breathe.

She’d written songs during those days, not full ones, just scraps and melodies she couldn’t name, lines that came to her like birds landing on a branch, never staying long enough to finish. She hummed them into his chest as they lay tangled on the floor or curled together in bed, and he’d try to guess what they meant. Sometimes he got close. Most times he didn’t. But it never mattered, because the guessing made her laugh, and the laughing always ended in kisses.

They cooked by firelight and ate straight from the pot. They slept at odd hours, letting dusk and dawn trade places. They made love often, not with urgency, but with the soft assurance of people who had finally stopped searching.

They’d made a life in that storm—brief and breathless and strangely holy. No visitors. No errands. No voices calling them to act. Just them, folded into each other, wrapped in wool and rhythm and romance.

But time, even sweet as it was, began to stretch.

The tightness of the space, once soothing, began to press inward. The water bucket developed a leak again, dripping steadily in the corner like a clock she couldn’t ignore. The roof creaked in its favorite spot when the wind changed, and though she used to find the sound comforting, now it grated—too familiar. Too expected.

Collin’s coat lived on its usual hook, and each time she passed it, she found herself staring at it a moment too long. Wondering how something that had once smelled like freedom now smelled like damp wool and repetition.

The same logs stacked by the door. The same spoon in the same mug. The same steam whispering from the pot. She still loved him—God, she did—but the world was waiting. Just beyond the snowdrifts, life was breathing again, and her feet itched to feel the trails.

Dragonfly shifted slightly, trying not to wake him, and stared toward the window. The light filtering through the frost-rimmed glass was pale and sharp—clear. There would be no more snow today.

Maybe not tomorrow, either.

She exhaled softly, reaching for the edge of the blanket. She needed to move. To stretch. To hear something other than her own thoughts. Maybe she’d fetch water. Or bake honey rolls. Or walk the long loop to town, just to feel her muscles burn.

But first, she’d make tea.

And maybe watch Collin sleep a little longer.

 © 2026 D. W. Kuo