It was more than a year ago, but the memory felt as vivid as if it could be grasped. A sudden downpour in the forest, unprepared, and Ian had placed his jacket over her head, leading her down this path as they ran together toward the chestnut grove.

“The coat was large enough to cover down to my hips. He held my shoulders tightly. Even in that urgent moment, my heart felt like it would burst. Being so close to him was thrilling.”

Back then, she thought it was just her one-sided love, but looking back, he had already loved her. His jacket, the arms that held her close—all of it was love.

Laura passed through the gate. The fence she once had to climb over with effort was now wide open, as if welcoming her.

After passing two springs, the chestnut grove came into view. Laura’s steps slowed to a stop.

The forest, which should have been dark as night under the dense canopy of leaves, was as bright as a dance stage beneath a chandelier.

Lamps hung in rows on the trees lining the path.

Her nose stung with emotion.

“Ian.”

He had dug up the ground, laid bricks, and hung lamps on every tree. For her. So that his wife, walking this path, wouldn’t hurt her feet or fear the dark.

Laura stepped slowly into the forest. Thanks to the lamplight, she could see not only her footing but thirty steps ahead.

“I think I know where this is. The cabin where we took shelter from the rain. That’s where it must be.”

Laura was certain.

“It was a meaningful place. Sitting side by side, listening to the rain, talking about this and that. Come to think of it, that’s when he gave me the shawl.”

Laura smiled softly. To think she still had that shawl, cherished so carefully. She couldn’t help but find her husband utterly endearing.

“To think of that place for our anniversary. He must have put so much thought into it.”

Laura pictured the cabin in her memory. A quaint two-story house with a pointed, triangular roof and a rugged surface of stacked logs. Though long abandoned, not a single floorboard had collapsed, and there were no leaks.

But in hindsight, it was fortunate the rain had stopped quickly, allowing them to leave after a short stay. The interior, true to its abandoned state, was covered in mold, the door hung loose with its hinges falling off, and there wasn’t a single intact window, letting cold drafts in. The dust was so thick that even though they hadn’t stayed an hour, her throat was sore the next day.

“Surely he’s not planning to have dinner there tonight, is he? Eating anything in that place would leave you covered in mold.”

Laura shook her head.

“Someone as fastidious as him would never suggest dining in a place like that.”

Far in the distance, the end of the path came into view. Laura’s heart raced with anticipation of seeing her husband and nostalgia for their cherished place, and she quickened her steps.

“Oh my!”

As Laura reached the end of the forest, her eyes widened as round as saucers.

The cabin from her memory stood before her. But it was a little… no, very different.

The broken windows had been repaired, frames and all, sparkling clean. Where there had only been a rickety door, a cozy porch had been added, with two pretty rocking chairs side by side. The second floor, once pierced by just a few windows, now boasted a wide veranda supported by the porch, complete with wooden railings.

Laura looked around the house. Vibrant pansies bloomed profusely in front—yellow, purple, white, red.

Laura clapped her hands together and burst into laughter. It was as if the house had sprouted up in the middle of a pansy garden.

She stepped through the flowers to circle the house.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

As she reached the back, the sound of something being struck pierced her ears. The noise came from a window and door on that side. Laura approached the window. The glass was lightly fogged, opaque as if misted. She pressed her face close, nearly touching the pane, and peered inside.

Beyond a window draped with floral curtains, warm light poured out. She saw the silhouette of a tall man standing by the hearth, striking something with a thwack, thwack. He occasionally poked the fire with a poker, stirred something, crouched to rummage in a corner, then returned to his spot to strike again.

Just from his silhouette, she knew exactly who it was. She knocked on the window, tap, tap.

The man’s movements stopped abruptly. He turned toward the window and hurriedly opened the door.

“Laura!”

Ian appeared, looking flustered.

He was different from usual. He wore just a shirt, loose brown serge trousers, and workman’s boots.

Even more surprising was that he, Ian Dalton, the master of Whitefield, was wearing an apron. Laura froze, as if icicles had sprouted from the floor.

Ian wiped the beads of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

“Why’d you come in this way? I left the front door open.”

“…Ian, what in the world…?”

“I’ll explain later. Come in through the front. It’s messy back here.”

Ian quickly shut the door, like a lazy housewife caught with a messy home. But it was too late. Laura had already glimpsed the space over his shoulder.

A hot hearth with a stew pot simmering atop it. A plucked duck on a cutting board. Piles of carrots and onions in a corner. Freshly baked cookies, golden from the oven.

He was unmistakably cooking.

“Good heavens. Him, cooking. Cooking…”

Come to think of it, he’d been spending a lot of time in the kitchen lately.

“Did he learn to cook for today? Goodness, I didn’t expect him to go this far…!”

Laura did as he asked and went to the front of the cabin, still reeling, steadying herself against the wall.

As he’d said, the front door was slightly ajar. She stepped inside.

Amid the aroma of simmering beef stew and baking bread, the first thing she noticed was the living room, papered with forget-me-not patterns. Beyond a plush sofa piled with stuffed dolls, a fireplace roared, and in front of it stood a round dining table.

Laura wandered slowly through the house. The once-grimy floor now gleamed, and the moldy walls were adorned with dried wildflower bouquets hanging upside down.

A pristine cabinet stood to one side. Through its glass, porcelain dishes painted with sheep and delicate figurines glinted orange in the firelight.

The abandoned ruin had transformed into a cozy, pastoral retreat.

Laura hardly dared to sit or touch anything.

“This is that abandoned cabin?”

She couldn’t believe it. In her memory, the cabin was a musty, gloomy dust pit, more suited as a cozy nest for bats than people. But the fireplace where they’d warmed themselves and the window where they’d checked for rain were exactly where she remembered. Laura let go of her doubts.

“He’s been busy all week cleaning and decorating this place.”

Laura approached the fireplace. On the round table in front was a red polka-dot tablecloth, neatly set with pear-shaped napkins, water glasses, forks, and knives.

From the left, near a small door, came the sound of a man’s footsteps.

The door opened, and Ian appeared, apron removed. Unlike the formal attire he wore at Whitefield Hall to maintain appearances for the staff, he was dressed casually. His usually neatly combed hair fell loosely over his forehead.

He looked far more relaxed, natural, and charming.

Ian carried a tray.

“Don’t just stand there, sit.”

He pulled out a chair by the fireplace table. Laura sat.

“Tired from the walk?”

Ian set a small cup before her and poured liquid from a kettle. Steam rose, carrying a refreshing scent. It was mint tea.

Laura looked up at him, bewildered.

“How did you do all this?”

Her expression seemed to delight him. With a broad smile, he kissed the top of her head.

“I’ll explain later. The stew’s simmering.”

He disappeared back outside.

When she was halfway through her tea, Ian returned with a large tray.

He set plates before her: a vegetable salad with mushrooms, beef, and finely chopped vegetables in a rich stew.

He placed food at his own spot and sat across from her.

“Try it.”

His tone betrayed nervousness. Laura spread a napkin over her lap and tasted the stew.

She blinked.

“It’s delicious.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Perfectly seasoned, rich, and smooth. The texture’s just right—not too soft.”

Ian beamed.

She kept eating, not out of fear of disappointing him but because it was genuinely good.

Ian watched her with a fond smile.

Before she knew it, the stew was gone. Laura tilted the plate quietly, scraping up every last drop.

“Want another plate?”

Laura, dabbing her mouth with a napkin, nodded.

“Just half.”

Ian stood immediately, taking her plate to the kitchen.

Laura glanced at his plate. It was untouched, just as he’d brought it.

When Ian returned, he set the plate before her.

“You eat too.”

“I’m full just watching you.”

Laura frowned.

“If you don’t eat, I won’t either.”

Only then did Ian pick up his spoon. They ate slowly.

“What is all this about?”

Ian wiped his mouth with a napkin before speaking.

“You asked for a special anniversary.”

“I just asked you to make me happy.”

“You’re a special woman. To make a special woman happy, you need a special event. So, how is it? Special enough?”

Laura looked around the house. It was, indeed, special.