It snowed all night.
By morning, the road outside Oakview was covered in snow. It looked like a thick white blanket had been laid over everything that used to move. The trees bent a little under the weight, and the sky hung low, dull gray, almost touching the rooftops.
Classes at the university were delayed because of the weather. I didn’t mind. I made myself instant coffee, pulled on my thickest sweater, and sat by the window watching people clear the snow off their cars. There’s something about that kind of still morning it lets you breathe before the world starts asking questions again.
Around noon, I finally decided to step out. The department was on the other side of town, but I preferred walking. It gave me time to think, or maybe to not think at all.
Halfway there, I saw a group of men standing around an old colonial-style building. They were near a narrow lane lined with pine trees. It looked abandoned tall windows covered in frost, wooden beams darkened by time. A signboard leaned against a wall: “Restoration in Progress – Khanna & Co.”
I slowed down out of habit. The mix of age and repair always drew me in. It felt like memory and hope sharing the same space.
One of the men noticed me watching. “You’re welcome to look, ma’am,” he said, nodding politely. “We’re just clearing some of the snow.”
Before I could respond, a voice came from the doorway steady, low, familiar.
“She’s fine. Let her in if she wants.”
I looked up. He was there the man from the cafe. The sketchbook guy.
He walked out onto the porch, wearing the same coat, snow collecting on his shoulders. Up close, his face looked calmer than I remembered eyes focused, not intense, just aware.
“I didn’t think you’d be out in this weather,” he said, not as small talk but like he actually meant it.
“I could say the same to you,” I replied, smiling a little. “Doesn’t look like the best day for construction work.”
He shrugged. “Restoration doesn’t stop for snow. We just adjust.” And when it’s your own home you can’t make excuse right?
Something about the word restoration stuck with me. It felt heavier than it should have.
He offered to show me around. I hesitated for a second, then nodded. The place wasn’t on my way, but somehow it didn’t feel like I was wasting time.
Inside, the building smelled of wood and cold air. The walls were stripped, some sections covered with blueprints and sketches pinned to boards. I noticed how he ran his hand along the old banister as if greeting it.
“It’s from the 1890s,” he said. “Belonged to a British family at first. We’re trying to keep as much original work as possible.”
I nodded, tracing the pattern on the window frame. “You must like history.”
“I like what time does to things,” he said. “How it leaves marks, but still leaves room to rebuild.”
That made me look at him properly. Most people talk about fixing; he talked about rebuilding. There’s a difference.
“So,” he asked, “you live nearby?”
“Guesthouse on Ridge Road. Teaching for a few months.”
He smiled slightly. “Psychology, right?”
That caught me off guard. “How’d you know?”
He pointed at the folder I was holding. I hadn’t even realized I was still carrying it.
“Ah,” I said. “That obvious.”
He didn’t answer, just smiled again, the kind that looks more like acknowledgment than amusement.
We walked through the hallway in silence for a bit. The snow outside reflected light through the windows, filling the place with a pale, clean glow. Every footstep echoed softly.
He stopped near an unfinished section of wall, where part of an old mural peeked through the plaster. “We found this last week,” he said. “Hidden under three layers of paint. You can barely see it, but there’s something there two figures, maybe. Could be anything.”
I looked at it. The outlines were faint, fragile. “You’re going to uncover it?”
“Eventually,” he said. “Carefully. You rush it, you lose everything.”
I don’t know why, but I thought about people when he said that.
Before I left, he handed me his card.
“Rayan Khanna,” it read. “Architect, Restoration Specialist.”
“If you ever want to see how we bring places like this back to life, you’re welcome to visit,” he said.
“I might,” I replied, tucking the card into my folder. “Once the snow calms down.”
As I stepped outside, the cold hit me again. The wind had picked up, carrying small flakes that stung when they touched my skin.
Halfway down the road, I turned around for one last look. He was still there, standing in the doorway, watching the falling snow. For a second, it felt like he belonged there more than the building itself.
I don’t know what made me smile then maybe the stillness, maybe the timing but I did.
And somehow, that smile stayed with me longer than it should have.
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