The Storm Room
- Chapter 4 -
Embedded Files
The power did not return.
Not after ten minutes.
Not after thirty.
By 8:14 PM, Foothill Quill had fully surrendered itself to candlelight.
The storm outside had grown thicker, heavier—snowfall pressing against the windows in great white waves like the mountain itself was trying to bury the road.
Aldercrest Pass had disappeared.
Cars no longer passed.
The city below, what little could still be seen of it, glowed dimly through snowfall and fog like a drowned constellation.
Inside the café, nobody left.
That was the strange part.
The front door had opened twice after the blackout.
Both times customers had looked outside at the white storm, then back at the warmth inside, and chosen to stay.
As if the decision required no thought at all.
Foothill Quill had become an island.
Ayla moved between tables carrying candles and blankets with the efficiency of a wartime field commander.
Declan watched her from behind the dead espresso machine.
“You’re weirdly calm.”
“I own a café.”
“That explains nothing.”
“It explains everything.”
She adjusted another candle near the tea wall.
“When you run a place like this, you prepare for disaster.”
“You prepared for a mountain blizzard?”
“I prepared for people during a mountain blizzard.”
That was the distinction.
Ayla always thought operationally.
People first.
Systems second.
Panic never.
Declan leaned against the counter, watching the room breathe under softer light.
Without electricity, the café felt older.
Less modern.
Like time had peeled backward.
The vinyl player sat still.
The register screen remained black.
Only firelight, lanterns, and small emergency lights glowed now.
Shadows stretched across cedar walls.
Steam rose from mugs like ghosts.
Books reflected gold.
It looked like the kind of place stories escaped from.
Rowan played quietly near the windows.
Acoustic now.
No microphone.
No amplifier.
Just strings.
Warm wood.
Human hands.
The entire café had unconsciously leaned toward him.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
His music moved differently tonight.
Slower.
Thinner.
Like snowfall itself.
Declan noticed customers listening in ways modern people rarely listened to anything.
No phones.
No distractions.
No divided attention.
Just presence.
He looked upstairs.
Even the reading loft had changed.
The hanging lamps were gone now, replaced by candles and Elias’s lantern resting at the top of the stairs like a lighthouse.
Marisol sat cross-legged beneath it sketching furiously.
The candlelight gave her inked pages a living quality.
Every movement of the flame shifted the shadows.
She looked less like an artist and more like someone translating something invisible.
Declan climbed the stairs carrying fresh tea.
Marisol didn’t look up.
“You’re stepping on page six.”
He froze.
“…I didn’t even see page six.”
“Exactly.”
She pulled it free from beneath his shoe.
“What’re you drawing?”
Marisol turned the sketchbook slowly.
Declan stopped.
The pages weren’t manga panels.
Not tonight.
They were studies.
Quick loose charcoal impressions.
Customers sitting in candlelight.
Bernard bent over his crossword.
Ayla handing blankets to strangers.
Rowan beneath the windows with guitar in hand.
And one strange page—
Elias standing at the loft stairs with the lantern.
But behind him—
outside the window—
Marisol had drawn shapes in the snow.
Tall.
Vague.
Almost human.
Declan frowned.
“What’s this?”
Marisol blinked.
Then looked.
“…I didn’t draw that.”
Declan stared.
She laughed nervously.
“I mean—I must’ve. But I don’t remember doing it.”
He looked toward the windows.
Outside:
nothing.
Just snow.
Wind.
Darkness.
Still.
He looked back at the sketch.
The shapes remained.
Watching.
He handed the book back.
“Maybe sleep more.”
“Probably.”
Below them, Bernard’s voice rose.
“Declan.”
That meant something.
Bernard only used his name when necessary.
Declan descended.
Bernard pointed toward the window.
“The road.”
Declan looked.
Headlights.
Stopped.
Half-buried in snow near the edge of Aldercrest Pass.
A vehicle stranded.
Ayla saw it too.
“That’s bad.”
“Should we call somebody?” Declan asked.
“No signal.”
Naomi Wren lowered her phone.
“Nothing.”
Of course.
Storm interference.
Mountain blackout.
No service.
Perfect.
The café grew quieter.
Even Rowan stopped playing.
Outside, the stranded vehicle sat motionless beneath snowfall.
No movement.
No doors opening.
No hazard lights.
Bernard stood slowly.
“They could freeze.”
Ayla looked toward Elias.
He stood near the Storm Room doorway, lantern in hand.
Like he’d already known.
Of course he had.
Declan folded his arms.
“You knew.”
Elias looked at him.
“I knew something would stop.”
That was infuriatingly vague.
And somehow enough.
Ayla grabbed coats.
“Declan.”
He blinked.
“What?”
“You’re coming.”
“Oh absolutely not.”
Bernard was already putting on gloves.
“Young legs.”
“I hate that phrase.”
Rowan stood too.
“I’ll help.”
Declan looked at him.
“You’re bringing a guitar?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Marisol called from upstairs.
“Wait.”
She ran down with scarves.
“You’ll freeze.”
Ayla took one.
“Thank you.”
Naomi was writing.
Still.
Declan stared.
“Are you seriously taking notes?”
Naomi didn’t look up.
“If you all die, this becomes incredible material.”
Ayla glared.
Naomi looked up.
“…that was a joke.”
Mostly.
The front door opened.
The storm hit immediately.
Cold.
Sharp.
Violent.
Snow blasted sideways through the lantern light.
The world outside had become white static.
Declan could barely see the vehicle.
Only the glow of its headlights remained.
Elias stepped forward first, lantern raised.
The light cut through snowfall like something older than electricity.
Something more certain.
They moved carefully.
Snow already reached ankle depth.
Wind pushed hard against them.
Declan pulled Marisol’s scarf tighter.
“Why do mountains always feel personal during storms?”
Bernard shouted over the wind:
“Because mountains don’t care about you.”
“That’s worse!”
At the vehicle, Rowan reached the driver’s side first.
He knocked hard.
Movement.
Inside:
two people.
A couple.
Young.
Terrified.
Alive.
Ayla opened the passenger side.
“You have to move.”
“Our car—”
“Forget the car.”
Elias held the lantern higher.
Snow swirled around him violently now.
The light barely flickered.
Declan noticed something strange.
The storm seemed to bend around Elias slightly.
Subtle.
But there.
Like the wind refused direct contact.
They led the stranded couple back toward Foothill Quill.
By the time they returned, everyone inside had moved instinctively.
Blankets ready.
Chairs cleared.
Tea already poured.
The café absorbed them instantly.
Like it had been waiting.
The girl cried first.
Quietly.
Not from fear.
From warmth.
The boy kept apologizing.
Ayla ignored him and handed him soup.
“Eat.”
He obeyed.
Declan stood near the windows catching his breath.
Snowfall thickened beyond the glass.
The stranded car had vanished already.
Buried.
Gone.
Naomi approached beside him.
Notebook still in hand.
“You realize this place is becoming a story.”
Declan looked toward the room.
Candlelight.
Music.
Steam.
Books.
Strangers wrapped in blankets.
Bernard returning to his crossword.
Marisol sketching again.
Ayla reorganizing the world through soup.
Elias near the Storm Room, silent beside the lantern.
Rowan tuning his guitar once more.
He looked back at Naomi.
“I think it already was.”
Naomi smiled.
Then wrote something.
At 9:43 PM, Rowan began playing again.
This time everyone listened.
No conversations.
No movement.
Just the music.
Snow fell endlessly outside.
And in the Storm Room—
for the first time—
Declan noticed the walls.
Covered in old names.
Hundreds.
Maybe thousands.
Scratched into cedar.
Dates.
Initials.
Messages.
Memories.
Like everyone who had once been stranded here had left a mark behind.
He stepped closer.
At the very top:
Winter 1989
Still snowing. Still here.
He smiled.
Behind him, Elias spoke quietly.
“The mountain keeps records.”
Declan turned.
“That’s unsettling.”
Elias looked at the wall.
“No.”
He lifted the lantern slightly.
“It’s merciful.”
Outside, the storm deepened.
But inside Foothill Quill—
warm beneath candlelight, stories, music, and snowfall—
nobody felt lost anymore.
Page updated
Google Sites
Report abuse