The house was still when I padded downstairs, the floorboards creaking under my socks. Outside, the sky was a pale gray, the kind of early morning color that made the snow falling outside look even softer. I had planned to make tea and enjoy a moment of calm before the chaos of the day.

But when I rounded the corner into the kitchen, I wasn’t alone.

Graham was sitting at the table, cradling a steaming mug of coffee in his hands. He stared out the window, his expression far away, like he hadn’t even noticed I was there.

“Couldn’t sleep?” I asked quietly.

He startled, his head jerking up, but when he saw me, his shoulders relaxed. “Something like that.”

I grabbed a mug from the cupboard and began filling the kettle. “Big day,” I said.

“Yeah,” he replied, leaning back in his chair. “Last day, too.”

His words sat between us, heavier than I was ready to deal with. I busied myself arranging a tea bag in my cup.

“Are you ready for your game?” I asked, keeping my tone light.

“Sure,” he said, though the weight in his voice betrayed him. He took a slow sip of coffee before setting the mug down.

“You don’t sound ready,” I said, watching him carefully.

He let out a dry laugh. “It’s not the game, really. I mean, hockey’s... fine. I like it. But I don’t know if I love it.”

I frowned, leaning against the counter. “What do you mean?”

Graham rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes dropping to the table. “I’m good at hockey. Always have been. But it’s just something I do, you know? I don’t think it’s my thing.”

“Have you told your dad that?”

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Not exactly. Hockey’s his whole world. If I quit, I don’t even know what we’d talk about anymore. It’s the only thing we have in common.”

“I'm sure that’s not true,” I said, crossing the room to sit across from him.

He raised an eyebrow, skeptical.

“It’s not,” I insisted. “He’s your dad, Graham. Even if hockey isn’t your passion, he’ll figure out how to connect with you. You just have to let him.”

Graham leaned back, looking at me like the idea had never occurred to him before. “Maybe,” he said quietly.

I rested my arms on the table. “You deserve to figure out what makes you happy. Even if it’s not hockey.”

He laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. “Yeah, well, that’s the problem. I don’t even know what makes me happy. I don’t think I’ve cared about anything in a long time.”

His voice cracked slightly, and my chest ached for him. “Why not?”

He hesitated, then sighed. “I think I used to know. When my sister was still here. She always had these big dreams. She wanted to be a doctor and travel and help people. She was full of life, and after we lost her, it was like... everything just stopped mattering.”

The raw honesty in his words left me speechless. I reached across the table and covered his hand with mine. “I’m so sorry, Graham.”

His lips twitched into a faint smile, but his eyes were sad. “Thanks. I don’t really talk about her much. It’s hard to explain.”

“You don’t have to explain,” I said softly. “It’s a lot to carry. No one expects you to figure everything out overnight.”

For a moment, we sat in silence, his hand warm beneath mine. Then he cleared his throat, his voice lighter. “What about you? What’s your big dream?”

I froze, caught off guard. “I don’t know if I have a big dream.”

“Come on,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “There’s gotta be something.”

I hesitated, then took a deep breath. “I’ve always wanted to go to art school. In Toronto.”

Graham raised an eyebrow, impressed. “That’s cool. Why haven’t you gone for it?”

I stared into my tea, my chest tightening. “It feels selfish, I guess. Leaving my mom and Noah to chase something that might not even work out.”

“That’s not selfish,” he said firmly.

“You really don’t think so?”

“No. I think it’s brave,” he said, his voice steady. “You should apply.”

I laughed nervously. “What if I’m not good enough?”

“You are,” he said simply.

“You don’t even know that.”

“I do,” he insisted. “You’re good enough, Isla. And you deserve to give yourself a chance. You can’t spend your whole life trying to take care of everyone else and forget about yourself.”

His words settled over me, warm and heavy all at once. I stared at him, wondering how he could sound so certain about something I had spent years doubting.

“Thanks,” I said softly.

“Anytime,” he replied, leaning back in his chair with a small smile.

The kettle whistled, sharp and sudden in the quiet. I stood to pour the water, trying to process the weight of our conversation.

When I handed him a fresh mug, his expression had shifted into something quieter, more thoughtful.

“Big day,” he said again, like he was trying to ground himself.

“Yeah,” I said, sitting back down. “Big day.”

But as we sat there in the stillness of the early morning, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this moment would be the one I remembered most.