Except it hadn’t felt that way.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but there was nothing to type. No name. No face. Just the trace of her voice in his head and the way her last message had clung to him.
He clicked on the transcript. Read it again. The words meant something. She meant something.
He minimized the file but didn’t close it. Just in case.
The lights flickered again, the storm outside reminding him it wasn’t done. But here inside the government building, the generator hummed steadily, like an artificial heartbeat. He was lucky to still have power. She probably didn’t.
He refreshed the chat again. Nothing.
Then he waited. And waited. A minute. Five. Ten.
The screen stayed empty. The box was silent.
She was gone.
And really, why would she come back? He’d fixed the issue. Answered her question. Solved her problem.
She'd been a little sharp around the edges. Not in a way that repelled him. If anything, he liked that she pushed back.
There was something about her—whoever she was—that stuck with him. The way she tried so hard to stay in control, even while her anxiety hummed beneath every clipped message. She reminded him of the clients he’d worked with, the soldiers he’d coached through panic attacks, the teenagers who said they were fine but couldn’t stop bouncing their knees. She reminded him of people who didn’t need rescuing… just a reason to believe someone would stand beside them.
She needed a steady hand. A little trust. Someone who could sayI’ve got youand mean it.
His hand hovered over the mouse, considering. Her name would be on the forms when they came in. He could put a face to the fire in her words.
But no. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t fair. That wasn’t him.
He wasn’t a stalker. He was a show-up-when-it-counts kind of guy. If it was meant to be, they’d find each other again. Stranger things had happened.
He glanced at the clock. It was after midnight. His last shift in this building. On Monday, he’d be off to a new office, a new badge, a new set of lives to step into and try to help.
Paul leaned back in his chair, ran a hand through his hair, and took one last look at the blank chat window. Then he clicked the red “X” in the corner.
Goodbye, mystery woman.
He stood, stretched, and grabbed his coat from the back of the chair. The storm outside painted the windows white, but something inside him had settled. The kind of stillness that came after solving a puzzle. Except this one had a missing piece he couldn’t stop thinking about.
By the time he made it back to his apartment, the snow had thickened into silence. Streets were hushed, the city muted under a soft, relentless white. He spent the weekend snowed in—no ringing phones, no office chaos, just him, the hum of the radiator, and a dozen cardboard boxes waiting to be filled.
Packing wasn’t sentimental. He’d never stayed long enough anywhere for it to be. Each file he tucked away, every plaque or coffee-stained notebook, marked the end of something familiar. He was headed to a small town where he could make more of a difference. Where kids slipped through the cracks less often. Where every name on a folder meant more than just a caseload—it meant someone he might actually get to help in person.
From the driver's seat in his car, he looked out the window. The storm had lost its steam over the weekend. The streets were salted, the city slowly waking. And Paul Winters was starting over. He just hadn’t expected to already miss someone he’d never even met.
The wipers struggled against the windshield, clearing away snow that fell like confetti from a sky determined to throw one last winter tantrum. Paul leaned forward over the steering wheel, eyes squinting through the slush, jaw tight with concentration.
So much for a calm first day.
The roads into the small town were half-plowed at best, the kind that offered just enough traction to fool you before trying to spin you into a ditch. His coffee had gone cold halfway through the drive, and his knuckles ached from clutching the wheel too long. But when he finally saw the welcome sign, hand-painted and flanked by snowbanks, something inside him unclenched.
He parked behind the modest red-brick building with a hand-letteredMayor’s Officeplaque over the door, then pulled his coat tighter as the wind bit at his ears. The air smelled like wood smoke and fresh snow—clean, bright, and a little bit like hope.
Inside, the warmth hit him in a rush—along with the unmistakable, high-pitched warble of a baby. A chubby-cheeked little girl with the kind of lungs that could file a complaint three counties over voiced her protest.
The mayor—broad-shouldered, easy grin—was bouncing the baby against his chest with the kind of practiced rhythm that came from instinct, not instruction. Beside him stood a woman who looked like she was born to wear confidence and cozy sweaters. She had a ringless hand tucked into the mayor’s arm, but by the looks he kept sneaking her way, it wouldn’t stay that way for long.
“Paul Winters?” the mayor asked with a smile. “We’re real glad to have you.”
