She stood at her mother's front window, arms crossed over her chest to ward off the chill.
The snow had stopped, but the sky was still a leaden gray; there would be no painting-quality sunset this evening. Instead, as far as she could see, the world was still … and bleak.
Tom clomped in, whistling, from his trip to the woodpile. She heard the logs bump onto the hearth and the rustle of his coat. He slipped up behind her and nuzzled her neck, making her jump.
"Damn! You're an icicle!" she exclaimed. He just laughed and pulled her into his arms.
"You all right? I saw you at the window. You seemed sad."
"I'm fine," she assured him. "It's just that I tend to get melancholy in the early evening, especially in winter. It's worse when I'm alone."
"You're not alone now; we're home," he whispered, and she shivered at the words and the memories they evoked.
But for the first time in many years … she believed it.