Saturday morning crept in quietly, as if it knew better than to rush. Lanika woke to a soft, pale, snow-soft light filtering through the curtains—light that only snow could bring, and even then, it was a special kind of light, one that only snow could make holy and forgiving. She didn’t need to check the windows to know what was waiting for her: another layer, another whiteout. Blain Falls had been shut in for five days, streets gone, world muffled in stillness and quiet. It would have normally driven her nuts to be cooped up like this. But today was different. It felt settled. It felt gentle.
She lingered in bed for a moment longer, savoring the quiet. No traffic. No neighbors. Just the gentle hum of the heating and her own breathing. Working from home all week had blurred the lines of the days, laptop perched on the dining table, paperwork piling up, but Saturday was its own day again the moment she kicked her legs out of the bed and into her house shoes. No alarm clocks. No emails. Just time.
Wrapped in a heavy robe, she pulled back the curtain and took a look. Snow covered everything—trees bent under the weight of it, cars lumpy with it, world mid-sentence, paused. Lanika smiled. If she was going to be stuck, she’d rather be stuck in the warm.
Breakfast called, the kind that took a little effort, the kind that said you’re worth it. As she cracked eggs into a bowl, the sound transported her back without asking permission. Snow days from a childhood that was real and bright—when school was closed and her parents stayed home, too. Her mother humming gospel while flipping pancakes. Her dad at the stove, pretending not to sneak an extra slice of bacon. Her little brother pacing the kitchen, bored and already plotting snowball fights. Breakfast had always been the anchor. No matter the weather’s roar, there was food, warmth, togetherness.
She stirred the eggs slowly, letting the memory settle instead of sting. Time had softened loss. What was left was a small comfort.
The pan warmed up. Butter sizzled. The smell was like a hug. She toasted bread, cut fruit, brewed coffee strong enough to make an entrance. Her kitchen wasn’t her mother’s kitchen smaller, quieter, but it was hers. Every cabinet picked out by her. Every mug with its own tale. Independence didn’t have to mean emptiness, and this moment proved it.
As she cooked, the snow continued to fall outside, but inside, Lanika felt rooted. She placed her plate at the window table, where steam rose and her heart swelled in a way she hadn’t expected. Working from home all week had taught her patience; being snowed in had taught her presence. And breakfast, then and now, reminded her that comfort could be remade, that warmth could be passed down.
She savored the first bite.
Saturday morning found her exactly where she was meant to be.
Simply Reesi 