Three Girls and a Secret Weekend
The fog arrived first. It climbed the trees slowly, like memory – patient, deliberate, unwilling to be noticed until it had already surrounded everything. The chalet in Courchevel, Le Hameau de Marcandou, stood inside it, wooden and warm, breathing faint light into the pale morning. Somewhere inside, water moved. Laughter too. The kind of laughter that only exists when you briefly forget the world outside exists.