February had always felt personal to Mara Ibekwe, as if the month itself had been designed to test her.
It arrived without apology, slicing through the year with cold air and forced sentiment. December at least pretended to be kind. January allowed people to reset. February, though, came draped in red and pink, demanding belief in love while offering no guarantees in return.
Mara had stopped believing in guarantees a long time ago.
She stood inside the small train-station café with her back to the counter, fingers wrapped around a cup of coffee she hadn't ordered for taste. Outside the tall windows, snow drifted down in thin, persistent streaks, blurring the outlines of the alpine town. Mountains rose in the distance sharp, unmoving, indifferent to human emotions. She liked that about them. They didn't pretend to care.
A Valentine's banner was taped crookedly to the café window.
Love Week Begins! it announced cheerfully, flanked by cartoon hearts.
Mara stared at it for a second too long.
Her chest tightened in that familiar way the way it always did when February reminded her it had arrived again. Fifteen years later, the feeling hadn't softened. It had simply become quieter. Heavier.
She turned away and took a sip of coffee. It was too hot, bitter, and entirely unremarkable. Perfect.
Her phone vibrated against the wooden table.
She didn't check it right away.
Experience had taught her that bad news always felt worse when acknowledged quickly. A delay, even a few seconds, gave the illusion of control.
Finally, she glanced down.
Unknown Number: Due to the ongoing transport strike and worsening weather conditions, all evening trains are suspended until further notice.
Mara read the message once.
Then again.
A third time, slower.
"No," she murmured, though the word barely made a sound.
She checked the time. 4:12 p.m.
Her plan had been simple. Precise. Arrive in town on February first. Finalize paperwork by the eighth. Visit the cemetery once only once and leave before the city transformed into a shrine for couples and flowers and promises she didn't trust.
She hated it when plans failed.
The café suddenly felt too warm, the laughter at the next table too loud. A couple leaned close together by the window, whispering, hands intertwined. Mara looked away quickly, irritation flickering beneath the surface.
She shoved her phone into her coat pocket, grabbed her bag, and stepped outside.
The cold hit her immediately sharp, bracing, honest. Snow clung to her dark hair, melting against her scalp as she walked faster than necessary. The streetlights were already coming on, glowing gold against the white. Shops were decorating early. Roses in vases. Heart-shaped chocolates stacked in windows.
Everywhere she looked, the world seemed determined to celebrate something she'd spent years learning to endure.
Mara remembered the first Valentine's Day after her mother died.
She had been fifteen, sitting on the edge of her bed while her aunt stood in the doorway holding a red dress Mara had never worn. The dress had been a gift bought weeks before, when her mother still laughed easily and talked about dinner reservations and candlelight like the future was a promise instead of a question.
"People will expect you to come out," her aunt had said carefully. "It might help."
Help what? Mara had wanted to ask. The fact that the house still smelled like antiseptic? The fact that her mother's slippers were still by the door, waiting for feet that would never slide into them again?
She hadn't worn the dress.
She hadn't gone anywhere.
Instead, she had sat in silence while the world celebrated love loudly, carelessly, as if it were something guaranteed.
That was the year Mara learned something important: love didn't disappear when someone died. It stayed. And because it stayed, it hurt.
The memory settled in her chest now, familiar and unwelcome. She shook her head slightly, as if that might dislodge it, and forced herself to focus on the present. On the cold. On the train station. On the fact that she was a grown woman now, with a job that required composure and paperwork and the ability to detach.
She helped people end marriages for a living.
It wasn't that she enjoyed it. She didn't. But she understood it. Love, she'd learned, didn't usually explode. It eroded. Quietly. Legally. With signatures and tired voices and eyes that no longer met across conference tables.
She finished her coffee and left it behind, untouched at the bottom.
The apartment agency sat on a narrow street lined with stone buildings and wrought-iron balconies. A banner stretched between two lampposts, fluttering in the wind: Saint-Valentin Approche.
Mara exhaled sharply and pushed the door open.
The woman behind the desk looked up and smiled and then hesitated, her expression shifting before Mara had even spoken.
That hesitation told her everything.
"I have a reservation," Mara said, her voice calm out of long practice. "Under Ibekwe."
"Yes," the woman replied quickly, tapping at her computer. "Yes, of course. But there has been a small complication."
Mara closed her eyes.
"Of course there has."
The woman blinked, startled, then smiled apologetically. "A booking error. We are very sorry."
"I booked weeks ago."
"And the apartment is reserved for you," the woman assured her. "It is just that another guest he has been delayed by the storm. There is nowhere else for him to go."
Mara opened her eyes. "So?"
"So," the woman continued carefully, "you will be sharing the apartment for a short time."
Mara stared at her.
"No."
"I understand this is not ideal."
"It's not happening."
"The hotels are full," the woman said gently. "It is a popular time."
Mara laughed once, sharply. "Of course it is."
She pressed her fingers against the edge of the desk, grounding herself. She could leave. She could try another agency. She could wander the town dragging her suitcase behind her like a warning sign.
And still, night would fall. Snow would thicken. Doors would close.
"How long?" she asked.
"At most fourteen days."
The number landed like a punch.
Fourteen.
She swallowed. "Separate rooms."
"Of course."
"And I'm not sharing meals."
The woman nodded quickly. "Of course."
Mara exhaled, defeated in a way that felt both small and enormous.
"Fine," she said. "But if this turns into something romantic, I'm burning the place down."
The woman blinked again, then smiled nervously. "I assure you this is purely practical."
Mara wasn't sure why that made her feel worse.
The walk to the apartment felt longer than it should have.
Snow thickened as evening settled in, softening the edges of the town. Streetlamps glowed like scattered embers, reflecting off icy sidewalks. Couples passed her, shoulders pressed together, laughter puffing into the cold air like something alive.
Mara kept her gaze forward.
She wondered, not for the first time, why holidays demanded participation. Why grief was expected to step aside for decorations and sales and curated happiness. There was no space for people like her in February people who carried love like a bruise instead of a banner.
Her phone buzzed again.
This time, it was her sister.
Did you get there safely?
Mara typed a response, deleted it, typed again.
Train strike. I'm stuck for now.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared.
You okay?
Mara stared at the question. Such a simple thing. Such a complicated answer.
I'm fine, she wrote, because that was the version of herself everyone expected. The functional one. The one who had learned how to survive without asking the world to slow down.
She slipped the phone back into her pocket as she reached the apartment building. Stone walls, iron railing, a wreath already hung on the door. Red ribbon against dark wood.
She paused before entering.
Fourteen days, she reminded herself again.
She could survive fourteen days.
The apartment was warm when she arrived. Too warm. The kind of warmth that crept under your clothes and reminded you that you were alive in ways you hadn't prepared for.
A man stood near the window, back to her, snow melting into the shoulders of his dark jacket. He turned at the sound of the door.
"Oh sorry," he said, stepping back immediately. "I didn't know you'd arrived."
His accent softened the words. French, but tempered. He looked tired. Not dramatically so just the kind of tired that settled into someone who carried things quietly.
Mara took him in despite herself. Broad shoulders. Dark hair slightly damp from snow. Eyes that didn't dart or assess, but held still, as if bracing for impact.
"I didn't know I'd be sharing," she said.
He nodded. "Neither did I."
Silence stretched between them. Not awkward. Not comfortable. Just present.
"I'm Julien," he offered after a moment.
"Mara."
Another pause.
"Well," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, "this is… unfortunate."
She almost smiled. Almost.
"I'm not here for long," he added quickly. "Work. And I won't be around much."
Good, she wanted to say.
Instead, she nodded.
Julien shifted his weight, clearly unsure what to do with his hands. He glanced toward the hallway, then back at her, as if calculating distances how much space was polite, how much was necessary.
"I'll take the smaller room," he said. "If that helps."
"It does," Mara replied automatically.
She set her bag down near the door, resisting the urge to apologize for nothing in particular. Years of navigating other people's emotions had taught her that apologies were often taken as invitations. She didn't want one.
Julien watched her for a moment, his expression unreadable.
"You don't like February," he said, not as a question.
Mara stiffened. "Is it that obvious?"
He shrugged lightly. "People who love it don't look like they're bracing for impact."
Something about the way he said it quiet, observant caught her off guard.
"Well," she said, crossing her arms, "some of us prefer months without expectations."
He nodded, as if that made sense. As if she hadn't just revealed something personal to a stranger.
"I'll stay out of your way," he said. "I promise."
She believed him. And that, strangely, unsettled her more than suspicion would have.
Outside, laughter floated up from the street below. Music followed. The town easing itself toward celebration.
Inside the apartment, the air was still.
Mara moved toward her room without looking back.
Fourteen days.
She didn't know it yet, but the countdown had already begun.
Mara closed the door behind her and leaned against it, eyes shut.
The room was simple white walls, a narrow bed, a small window overlooking the street. Valentine lights had already been strung across the opposite building, glowing faintly through the snowfall. She crossed the room and pulled the curtain shut with more force than necessary.
Fourteen days.
She pressed her palms against her eyes, breathing slowly, deliberately, the way she did before court hearings and difficult conversations. Control the breath. Control the moment. Control yourself.
Yet something felt off.
It wasn't fear. It wasn't irritation. It was the unsettling awareness that something had shifted the instant Julien had turned around. Not attraction she refused to label it that but recognition. As if part of her had noticed him before her mind could intervene.
She didn't like that.
Mara sat on the edge of the bed and removed her coat, folding it carefully despite the tremor in her fingers. She told herself it was the cold. The travel. The exhaustion.
Not the quiet steadiness in his voice.
Not the way he had offered space instead of charm.
From the other side of the wall, she heard him moving soft footsteps, a drawer opening, water running briefly in the kitchen. Ordinary sounds. Harmless sounds.
Her chest tightened anyway.
This was how February always started. Small disruptions. Innocent moments. Then loss followed, disguised as hope.
She lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
"I won't do this," she whispered to the empty room. "Not again."
Outside, church bells rang the hour, their echo carrying through the snow-covered town like a reminder she didn't want.
February had only just begun.
And somehow, against her will, Mara felt the faint, terrifying sense that this one would not pass quietly.