Chapter 3 — Snowbound Reflections
Third Person
The wind outside the Icelandic airport hotel howled with unrelenting ferocity, driving snow against the windows in fierce, spiraling gusts. The horizon had vanished, consumed by the storm’s icy grip, leaving the world outside a cold, white void. Inside the lobby, the fire crackled in its stone hearth, its flickering light casting dancing shadows on the wooden beams above. The faint scent of pine mingled with the smoky warmth, creating a cocoon of rustic comfort that did little to dispel the tension between Claire and Michael as they stood at the check-in desk.
Claire’s arms were crossed tightly, her tailored coat still damp from the storm. Her hazel eyes, sharp and unyielding, locked onto the young receptionist. “You’re telling me there’s only one room left? I booked two. Days ago.”
The receptionist offered an apologetic smile, her English carrying the soft lilt of Icelandic vowels. “I’m very sorry, ma’am. Many passengers from your flight booked rooms because of the storm. Our system has been… complicated.”
Michael stood a step behind Claire, his hands buried in the pockets of his corduroy pants. Snowflakes clung stubbornly to his hair, melting into damp streaks that he hadn’t bothered to brush away. “It’s okay, Claire,” he said, his voice calm and deliberate. “I can sleep in the lobby if I have to.”
Claire turned to him with a sharp glare. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll freeze out here.” Her voice, clipped and precise, carried the edge of her growing frustration. She exhaled sharply, turning back to the receptionist. “I’ll take the room. He’ll—”
“Claire.” Michael’s tone was gentle but firm, cutting her off. “We can share. It’s not like we haven’t had to make do before.”
A faint flush rose up Claire’s neck, and her jaw tightened, though she said nothing. The receptionist cleared her throat, her gaze darting nervously between them. “It’s a suite,” she offered hesitantly. “There is a sitting area with a sofa. Perhaps one of you could…”
“That’ll work,” Michael said before Claire could interject. “We’ll take it.”
Claire sighed audibly, pinching the bridge of her nose as if holding a headache at bay. “Fine. But only for tonight,” she said sharply. Snatching the key card from the counter, she turned and strode toward the elevator, her heels clicking against the wooden floor in sharp, staccato beats.
Michael followed at a slower pace, pausing briefly to glance at the snowstorm raging outside the glass doors. The snow swirled endlessly, a silent domination of nature that carried an odd serenity. As the elevator doors slid shut behind them, the confined space seemed to compress the tension between them. Claire gripped the key card tightly, her knuckles pale against her skin, and Michael noticed the slight tremor in her hands, though he didn’t comment.
By the time they reached the suite, the storm outside had intensified. The wind’s mournful wail seeped through the walls, a ghostly chorus accompanying the relentless battering of snow. The room itself was modest but inviting, with sturdy wooden furniture, thick woolen blankets folded neatly on the bed, and a small fireplace casting a soft, golden glow. Claire immediately claimed the bed, placing her leather carry-on on the duvet with a decisive thud.
Michael smirked faintly but said nothing, settling himself on the small sofa by the fire. The sofa creaked under his weight, and he unwound the scarf from his neck, draping it over the back of a chair. The faint scent of pine clung to the wool, a reminder of Henrik’s earlier kindness. Michael’s gaze lingered on the scarf, its subtle Icelandic patterns catching the firelight, before he leaned back against the cushions.
“You don’t have to act like I’m intruding,” he said lightly, his voice carrying a trace of humor.
Claire didn’t look up from unpacking her essentials, her movements brisk and exact. “I’m just trying to make the best of a bad situation. This…” She gestured vaguely between them, her voice tight. “This is hardly ideal.”
Michael chuckled softly, the sound low and warm. “You always did hate things you couldn’t control.”
Her hands stilled for the briefest moment before she resumed unpacking, her voice sharp. “And you always had a way of deflecting with humor when things got serious.”
The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. Michael’s smile faded, and he watched her, thoughtful. The years had refined her sharp edges into an impenetrable armor, her polished exterior a shield against the world. Yet, in small, fleeting moments, he caught glimpses of vulnerability—like the way her fingers smoothed over the faint scar on her left eyebrow when she was frustrated.
“You’re still wearing it,” Claire said suddenly, her tone quieter but no less pointed.
Michael blinked, caught off guard. He followed her gaze to the small silver compass pendant resting against his chest. He reached up, his fingers brushing the cool metal. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I guess I am.”
Her expression softened, just enough for him to notice. “Your dad gave it to you, didn’t he?”
Michael nodded, his voice tinged with nostalgia. “He did. Told me it would help me find my direction, even if I got lost.” He paused, then added with a faint smile, “Still working on that part.”
Claire’s lips curved into the ghost of a smile, but her eyes remained guarded. “That sounds like him.”
The silence that followed was thick with unspoken words. Michael shifted forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he stared into the fire. The flames flickered unsteadily, their light reflecting the instability of the moment.
“I never blamed you,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
Claire froze, her hands gripping the edge of the dresser. She didn’t turn to face him. “For what?” she asked, though they both knew the answer.
“For the miscarriage,” Michael said, his tone steady but heavy with emotion. “I know you think I did. But I didn’t.”
Her breath hitched, and her shoulders tensed. “Michael…”
“I should have said it then,” he continued, his voice breaking slightly. “I should have been there for you—really been there. But I didn’t know how.”
She turned to face him, her hazel eyes glistening with unshed tears. “You didn’t know how? I didn’t either. I didn’t know how to grieve and still keep everything together. And you… you just pulled away.”
“I didn’t pull away,” he said, his voice raw. “I was scared, Claire. Scared of losing you, of saying the wrong thing. So I said nothing, and I let you carry it all alone. I was wrong.”
Her tears spilled over then, silent and unchecked, each drop a crack in her carefully constructed armor. She wrapped her arms around herself, as if trying to hold herself together. “I blamed myself,” she admitted, her voice trembling. “I thought… maybe if I’d done things differently, if I’d been less focused on work…”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Michael said gently, stepping closer. His hand hovered near her arm before he rested it lightly on her shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault.”
She didn’t pull away. Instead, she let out a shuddering breath, her shoulders shaking as she allowed herself to feel the weight of his words. The firelight danced across their faces, illuminating the vulnerability they had both buried for so long.
A knock at the door shattered the fragile moment. Claire quickly wiped her eyes, stepping back as Michael opened the door. Henrik stood there, holding a tray with a teapot and two cups.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Henrik said, his voice calm and steady. “But I thought you might like some tea. The storm looks like it will last through the night.”
Claire managed a small, grateful smile. “Thank you.”
Henrik nodded, his gaze lingering on them for a moment. “In Iceland, we say storms remind us what’s important. Maybe this one’s doing the same.” He offered a kind smile before leaving.
Michael closed the door, glancing at Claire. Her expression was unreadable, but something had shifted—a crack in her armor, a flicker of the woman he had once known.
“Tea?” he offered, holding up the tray.
Claire hesitated, then nodded. “Sure.”
They sat by the fire, the warmth of the tea and the glow of the flames creating a fragile sense of peace. For the first time in years, the silence between them felt less like a wall and more like a bridge.
