The kind of sickness that steals little pieces of you each day until there’s nothing left but goodbyes. I’d taken care of him through all of it. Made meals he couldn’t eat. Told jokes that didn’t land. Held him when the pain got bad.
And still, somehow, it hadn’t been enough to prepare me for the silence that came after.
I rubbed my hands together, chasing off the chill. Sometimes, late at night, I could still feel his weight leaning against me. The warmth of his hair against my neck. I missed the little things most.
The quiet mornings.
The easy laughter.
The sound of him humming under his breath when he thought I wasn’t listening.
Grief is strange like that. It settles deep, but it never fully leaves. You just learn to carry it differently.
Wren had made me promise not to close myself off. “Don’t give up on love,” he’d said one night, his voice small and tired. “Promise me you’ll keep your heart open.”
I’d said I would. I meant it, too. But meaning and doing aren’t the same thing.
Now, two years later, I was still trying. I’d found purpose in the work, comfort in the routine. And on nights like this—nights when the cold wind whistled through the rafters and the snow blanketed the fields—I let myself believe that was enough.
But lately… it hadn’t felt like enough.
I gave Ginger another pat. “Come on now, girl. It’s time for bed.”
She tossed her head again, as if disagreeing. The horses always seemed to sense when something was on my mind. Maybe that’s why she wouldn’t settle.
She wasn’t the only one.
When I couldn’t sleep, I made my rounds checking gates, counting livestock, and walking the perimeter until my thoughts quieted. Dr. Soto, my old therapist, called it “grounding”. Said it helped me stay connected to the present.
I just called it habit.
Still, it worked. The cold air kept me awake, and the rhythm of my steps gave my mind something to focus on.
“Just you and me, Ginger,” I said softly. “Two insomniacs in the snow.”
She flicked her ear, unimpressed.
I chuckled under my breath and reached for her feed bucket. The sound of grain hitting the pail filled the barn, and for a moment, everything felt simple again—quiet, steady, familiar.
Then she froze.
Her head shot up, muscles taut, nostrils flaring. I stilled, the sudden tension in the air setting off my own pulse.
“What is it, girl?” I asked, following her gaze toward the open doorway.
Snow drifted in through the gap, catching the light. And then—just for a second—I saw it. A flash of movement.
Headlights.
I frowned. “Now who could that be?”
The ranch was isolated enough that no one came by unannounced, especially not at this hour. The others would all be asleep by now.
I gave Ginger one last stroke down her neck, murmured a quiet goodbye, and latched her stall door. She had a knack for sneaking out if I didn’t. Pulling my coat tighter, I stepped out into the cold.
The wind hit hard, carrying with it the scent of pine and snow. My breath fogged in front of me as I started toward the main house. The world was hushed, the sky heavy with puffy clouds. Only the crunch of my boots broke the silence.
The Coleman Ranch stretched out wide and open, the snow turning every fence and rooftop into something out of a painting. The lights near the big house glowed faintly, halos of white in the swirling snowfall.
