Unbroken Ground
The first snow of the new winter began to fall at midnight—soft, silent flakes drifting down through the dark canopy of the Douglas firs, coating the meadow, the creek, and the cedar roofs in a clean, unblemished blanket of white.
Leah stood on the wide front porch of the main lodge, wrapped in a heavy wool cardigan, holding a mug of steaming tea.
The valley was completely silent, illuminated by the soft amber glow of the porch lanterns. Across the clearing, the creek flowed steadily beneath the ice, its waters clear, pure, and unstoppable.
She looked down at her hands—hands that were no longer bruised, hands that no longer trembled, hands that had built a refuge out of the ruins of a broken life.
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The rain that had once threatened to drown her had not washed her away; it had simply cleared the ground, washing away the false empires of pride and leaving behind a foundation of unyielding, eternal truth.
Leah took a deep, clear breath of the crisp mountain air, feeling the solid, honest earth beneath her boots, knowing that no matter what storms the world might bring, the house was built on granite, the doors were unlocked, and she would never, ever be afraid again.
