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The snow started on a Tuesday and didn't stop until Friday. By the time it was done, the roads were closed, the power was out, and Leo Cross was sitting in his kitchen with a kerosene lamp on the table and a bottle of whiskey half-empty beside it. He was seventy-two years old. He'd lived in this house for forty-three years. He'd never seen snow like this. The phone had been dead since Wednesday. The radio worked when it wanted to. The last report he heard said the whole county was shut down. Stay inside. Don't travel. Wait for the plows. Leo looked out the window. The yard was gone. The fence was gone. The road was a white memory of something that used to be there. The only thing he could see was the barn, fifty yards from the house, its roof sagging under the weight of the snow, its door half-buried, waiting for him to come out and do something about it. He couldn't do anything about it. His knee was shot. His back was shot. His hands were stiff and cold and didn't work the way they used to. He'd been telling himself for three years that he needed to fix that barn. Needed to shore up the roof. Needed to replace the door. Needed to do a lot of things. And now the snow had come, and the barn was still there, waiting, and Leo was sitting in his kitchen with a bottle of whiskey and a lamp that was running low on fuel. He thought about the horses. There were no horses in the barn. There hadn't been horses in that barn for twenty years. The last one was a mare named Sadie, a chestnut with a white blaze, the gentlest horse he'd ever owned. His daughter had learned to ride on Sadie. Had sat on her back with her hands in the mane and her face to the sun and her laugh like a bell in the clear morning air. Then Sadie got old. Got stiff. Got to where she couldn't stand up one morning, and Leo had to take the rifle from the closet and walk out to the barn and do what had to be done. His daughter was away at college. He didn't tell her. He never told her. He just buried the horse under the oak tree at the edge of the pasture and went back to the house and sat in his chair and didn't move until his wife came home from work and found him there, the rifle leaning against the wall, his hands empty on his lap. "What happened?" she asked. "Sadie's gone," he said. She didn't ask any more questions. She put her hand on his shoulder and stood there for a long time, not saying anything, the way she'd stood there when his mother died, when his father died, when anything died that was supposed to live. That was twenty years ago. His wife was gone now too. Cancer. Five years. They'd caught it late, treated it hard, got a year of something that looked like hope before it came back and took her in three months. His daughter was there for that. Came home from the city, sat with her mother, held her hand the way Leo should have held it but couldn't, because he didn't know how, because he'd never known how, because the only way he knew how to love was to fix things, and this was something he couldn't fix. After the funeral, his daughter went back to the city. She called once a week. She came home for Christmas. She asked him to sell the place. Asked him to move to the city. Asked him to do something other than sit in this house and wait for something that wasn't coming. "I'm fine," he told her. "I'm fine here." "You're not fine, Dad. You're alone." "I'm not alone. I got the house. I got the land. I got the barn." She didn't say anything. She knew about the barn. She knew there was nothing in it. She knew that the only thing he was keeping was the thing that reminded him of everything he'd lost. "Come to the city," she said. "Just for a while. Just to see." "I got the horses to take care of." "What horses, Dad?" He didn't answer. She left. She always left. And Leo sat in his chair and looked out the window at the barn and didn't go out to it, didn't open the door, didn't walk through the stalls where the horses had lived, where Sadie had lived, where the smell of hay and leather and something that used to be alive still hung in the air like a ghost that didn't know it was dead. Now the snow had come. The power was out. The roads were closed. And Leo was sitting in his kitchen with a bottle of whiskey and a lamp that was running low on fuel, and he was thinking about the barn. He thought about the roof. The way it sagged in the middle. The way the snow was piling up on it, heavier and heavier, pushing down on the old wood that was already cracked, already weak, already waiting to give. He thought about the door, half-buried, the wood swollen with years of rain and snow and neglect. He thought about the stalls, the hayloft, the saddle that hung on the wall, the bridle with his daughter's initials carved into the leather, the things that were waiting for someone to come and use them again. He thought about Sadie. The way she'd look at him when he came into the barn. The way she'd lift her head and nicker, soft, the way a horse does when it's waiting for something. The way she'd stand still while he brushed her, while he saddled her, while he led her out into the pasture and watched her run, her legs long and her mane flying and her breath steaming in the cold morning air. He thought about his daughter on Sadie's back. The way she'd sit, straight and tall, her hands light on the reins, her face turned to the sun. The way she'd laugh when the horse broke into a canter, when the wind was in her hair and the world was wide and there was nothing to be afraid of. He thought about his wife. The way she'd stand at the kitchen window, watching them, her hands in the sink, her face soft, her eyes full of something he couldn't name. The way she'd say, "She's got your hands," and he'd look at his hands, the rough hands, the working hands, the hands that had built this house and cleared this land and held this family together, and he'd see his daughter's hands, small and light and quick, and he'd think, *No, she's got yours.* He looked at his hands now. The hands that were stiff and cold and didn't work the way they used to. The hands that hadn't held a hammer in five years, hadn't held a plow in ten, hadn't held his wife's hand in the time when it mattered most. The hands that were empty now, resting on the table next to the bottle of whiskey, waiting for something to do. He stood up. His knee screamed. His back screamed. He ignored them. He walked to the closet. Put on his coat. His boots. His gloves. The same coat he'd worn for twenty years. The same boots his wife had bought him for their thirtieth anniversary. The same gloves his daughter had given him last Christmas, soft leather lined with wool, the kind of gloves a man wears when he doesn't need gloves anymore but wears them anyway because someone gave them to him. He opened the door. The cold hit him like something solid. The snow was up to his knees. Higher in some places. The wind was blowing, hard, pushing the snow into drifts, covering the path, covering the yard, covering everything that was familiar. The barn was fifty yards away. It looked like it was a hundred. He stepped out. The snow pulled at his legs. The wind pushed at his chest. He took a step. Another. Another. The barn got closer. The roof sagged lower. The door was buried to the latch. He could see it now, the wood gray and cracked, the hinges rusted, the handle worn smooth from years of use. He reached the door. Put his hand on the handle. The wood was cold. The metal was cold. He pulled. The door didn't move. He pulled again. It gave a little, an inch, a crack, enough to let a drift of snow fall through. He pulled again. His hands were numb. His arms were shaking. His back was a line of fire. He pulled again, and the door opened, a foot, two feet, enough to let him through. He stepped inside. The barn was dark. The windows were covered with snow. The air was cold and still and smelled like hay and dust and something that used to be alive. He stood there for a minute, letting his eyes adjust, letting his breath slow. The stalls were empty. The hayloft was bare. The saddle hung on the wall, covered in dust, the leather cracked, the stirrups still. The bridle hung beside it, the bit rusted, the reins stiff, his daughter's initials still carved into the leather, faded now, but still there. He walked to the stall where Sadie had lived. The door was open. The floor was covered with old hay, dry now, brittle. He put his hand on the wood. The wood was cold. The stall was empty. But he could see her there, standing in the corner, her head low, her eyes soft, her breath steaming in the cold morning air. He walked to the saddle. Put his hand on it. The leather was cracked. The stitching was loose. But it was there. It was the saddle he'd used every day, for twenty years, the saddle he'd put on Sadie's back, the saddle his daughter had sat in, her hands in the mane, her face to the sun. He walked to the bridle. Lifted it off the hook. The leather was stiff. The bit was rusted. The reins were hard. But it was there. It was the bridle his daughter had used, the one she'd carved her initials into, the one she'd left behind when she went to the city and didn't come back. He stood in the middle of the barn. The snow was piling up outside. The wind was howling. The roof was sagging. The walls were leaning. The whole thing was waiting to fall. He knew it. He'd known it for years. The barn was dying. The way Sadie had died. The way his wife had died. The way everything died that was old and tired and couldn't stand up anymore. He thought about what his daughter had said. *Come to the city. Just for a while.* He thought about what his wife had said. *You can't keep it all. You have to let some of it go.* He thought about what his father had said, the day he gave Leo this land, this house, this barn. *It's yours now. Take care of it. It's all we got.* He looked at the saddle. The bridle. The stalls. The hayloft. The walls that were leaning, the roof that was sagging, the door that was half-buried in snow. He thought about the horses that had lived here. The workhorses, the riding horses, the mare named Sadie who had carried his daughter through the fields and the woods and the clear morning air. He thought about the hands that had built this barn. His grandfather's hands. His father's hands. His own hands, young then, strong then, hands that knew what to do and how to do it and never asked for anything else. He looked at his hands now. Old hands. Stiff hands. Hands that hadn't done anything in five years except hold a bottle and turn the pages of a book and wave goodbye to a daughter who was leaving again. Hands that had let go of everything they were supposed to hold. He put the bridle back on the hook. The leather creaked. The bit clinked against the wood. He walked to the door. Looked out at the snow. It was still coming down. The yard was gone. The house was a gray shape in the white. The road was a memory. He was here. In this barn. In this place that was falling apart. In this place that was still standing, somehow, still holding, still waiting. He walked back into the barn. Found the shovel. The one he'd used to muck out the stalls, to clear the path, to dig the grave under the oak tree when Sadie died. The handle was worn. The blade was rusted. But it was there. It was his shovel. It was still his. He walked to the door. Started shoveling. The snow was heavy. Wet. It stuck to the blade, weighed it down, made each lift a thing that took everything he had. His back screamed. His arms screamed. His hands were numb. But he kept going. One shovel. Two. Three. He cleared a path from the barn to the house. A narrow path, barely wide enough for one man, but a path. A way through. He stood at the door of the barn, leaning on the shovel, breathing hard. The path was there. The house was there. The snow was still falling. But the path was there. He went back inside. Looked at the stalls. The saddle. The bridle. The walls that were leaning. The roof that was sagging. The barn that was dying. He picked up the shovel. Walked to the stall where Sadie had lived. Started shoveling the old hay. Dry. Brittle. Dusty. He shoveled it into a pile in the middle of the floor. He shoveled until the stall was clean, the floor bare, the wood showing. He shoveled the other stalls. The ones that had been empty for twenty years. He shoveled until all the stalls were clean, until the hay was piled in the middle, until the floor was bare and the dust was settled and the barn was quiet. He walked to the hayloft. The ladder was old. The rungs were worn. He tested it. It held. He climbed. The hayloft was empty. The floor was covered with dust and bird droppings and the bones of things that had died there. He stood there for a minute, looking down at the barn below, at the stalls, at the saddle, at the bridle, at the shovel leaning against the wall. He thought about the hay that used to be here. The bales stacked to the roof, the smell of clover and timothy, the way the light came through the windows and lit the dust in the air. He thought about the hands that had stacked that hay. His father's hands. His own hands. Hands that knew what to do and did it, every day, without thinking, without asking, without ever wondering if it was worth it. He climbed down. Picked up the shovel. Walked to the door. Looked out at the snow. It was slowing. The sky was lighter. The wind was dying. He could see the road now, a white line through the white fields, waiting for the plow, waiting for someone to come and clear it. He thought about his daughter. The city. The apartment. The life she'd built without him. He thought about the phone call he'd make, when the power came back, when the lines were clear, when he could hear her voice on the other end. He'd tell her about the snow. About the barn. About the path he'd shoveled, the stalls he'd cleaned, the things he'd done that he should have done years ago. He'd tell her that he was okay. That he was fine. That he was here, in this house, on this land, in this barn that was still standing, still holding, still waiting for someone to come and use it again. He didn't know if he'd tell her about the rest. About the saddle, the bridle, the stalls, the hayloft, the shovel that was rusted and worn and still, somehow, his. About the way he'd stood in the middle of the barn, in the dark, in the cold, and felt something he hadn't felt in a long time. Something that wasn't waiting. Something that wasn't dying. Something that was, maybe, living. He looked at the barn. The walls were leaning. The roof was sagging. The door was half-buried in snow. But the stalls were clean. The path was clear. The saddle was on the wall. The bridle was on the hook. The shovel was in his hands. He put the shovel down. Walked to the door. Pulled it closed. The snow pushed back. He pushed harder. The door closed. The latch caught. The barn was dark again. The stalls were empty. The saddle hung on the wall. The bridle hung beside it. The shovel leaned against the door. Leo stood in the snow. The wind was quiet. The sky was clearing. The sun was low on the horizon, a white light through the gray clouds, the first sun he'd seen in three days. He looked at the barn. The roof was sagging. The walls were leaning. The door was closed. The barn was still standing. He walked to the house. The path he'd shoveled was narrow, but it was there. His boots crunched in the snow. His breath steamed in the cold. His knee hurt. His back hurt. His hands were numb. But he was walking. He was moving. He was going somewhere. He reached the house. Opened the door. Went inside. The kitchen was cold. The lamp was low. The whiskey was still on the table. He left it there. He went to the stove. Opened the damper. Put in wood. Lit it. The fire caught. The stove warmed. The kitchen started to heat. He sat in his chair. The same chair he'd sat in for forty-three years. The same chair where he'd held his daughter when she was a baby, when she was sick, when she was scared. The same chair where he'd sat with his wife, on the nights when the work was done and the kids were asleep and the house was quiet. The same chair where he'd sat after Sadie died, after his wife died, after everything that was alive had left him here, alone, waiting. He looked out the window. The barn was there. The path was there. The sun was setting, low and red, lighting the snow, lighting the barn, lighting the house. The barn was still standing. The roof was sagging. The walls were leaning. The door was closed. But it was standing. It was still standing. Leo sat in his chair. The fire was burning. The room was warming. The lamp was flickering, low on fuel, but still burning. He looked at his hands. The hands that were old and stiff and didn't work the way they used to. The hands that had shoveled a path, cleaned a stall, held a saddle, touched a bridle. The hands that had done something today that he hadn't done in five years. He thought about the phone call he'd make. Tomorrow, maybe. When the lines were clear. When the power was back. When he could hear his daughter's voice on the other end. He'd tell her about the snow. About the barn. About the path. He'd tell her that he was okay. That he was fine. That he was here, in this house, on this land, in this life that was still his, still waiting, still something. He didn't know if he'd tell her about the rest. About the way he'd stood in the barn, in the dark, in the cold, and felt something he hadn't felt in a long time. About the way he'd looked at the saddle, the bridle, the stalls, the hayloft, and seen something that wasn't dead, wasn't gone, wasn't lost. About the way he'd walked back to the house, through the snow, on a path he'd made with his own hands, and felt, for the first time in five years, like he was going somewhere. He looked out the window. The sun was gone. The snow was blue in the twilight. The barn was a dark shape against the sky, its roof sagging, its walls leaning, its door closed. The barn was still standing. Leo closed his eyes. The fire crackled. The lamp flickered. The house settled around him, the way it had settled for forty-three years, the way it would settle for as long as he was here to hear it. He thought about the shovel, leaning against the door of the barn. He thought about the path, narrow but clear, from the barn to the house. He thought about the spring that would come, eventually, when the snow melted, when the ground thawed, when the days got longer and the work started again. He thought about the barn. The roof he'd fix. The walls he'd straighten. The door he'd replace. The stalls he'd fill, maybe, with something new. Not horses. He was too old for horses. But something. Something alive. Something that needed him. Something that was worth keeping. He opened his eyes. The room was dark. The lamp had gone out. The fire was low. But there was light coming through the window. The moon was up. The snow was white. The barn was a dark shape against the white, its roof sagging, its walls leaning, its door closed. But it was there. It was still there. Leo stood up. His knee hurt. His back hurt. His hands were stiff. But he stood. He walked to the window. Looked out at the barn. The path he'd shoveled was there, a dark line through the white, from the barn to the house. The shovel was leaning against the door, where he'd left it. The barn was waiting. He thought about the spring. The work he'd do. The things he'd fix. The things he'd save. He thought about his daughter. The call he'd make. The words he'd say. The things he'd tell her, finally, after all these years, about the barn, about the horses, about the life he'd built and the life he'd lost and the life that was still here, waiting for him to come back to it. He put his hand on the window. The glass was cold. His hand was warm. He looked at the barn. The moon was high. The snow was bright. The barn was dark. But it was there. It was still there. Leo smiled. He didn't know he was smiling. He hadn't smiled in five years. But he was smiling now. At the barn. At the snow. At the moon. At the night that was quiet and cold and full of something that wasn't dying, wasn't ending, wasn't leaving. He turned away from the window. Walked to the stove. Put another log on the fire. The flames caught. The room warmed. He walked to the table. Picked up the bottle of whiskey. Looked at it. Half-empty. He put it in the cupboard. Closed the door. He walked to his chair. Sat down. The fire was burning. The room was warm. The moon was at the window. The barn was waiting. He closed his eyes. And for the first time in five years, Leo Cross slept. He slept through the night. The fire burned low. The moon crossed the sky. The snow stopped falling. The wind stopped blowing. The barn stood in the field, its roof sagging, its walls leaning, its door closed. The shovel leaned against the door. The path was clear. The house was dark. The man was asleep. In the morning, the sun came up. The snow was white. The sky was blue. The cold was sharp. Leo opened his eyes. He was in his chair. The fire was out. The room was cold. But the sun was at the window, and the barn was there, and the path was there, and the shovel was leaning against the door. He stood up. His knee hurt. His back hurt. His hands were stiff. But he stood. He walked to the window. Looked out. The snow was deep. The fields were white. The road was still closed. But the sun was up. The day was new. The barn was waiting. He put on his coat. His boots. His gloves. The same coat. The same boots. The same gloves. He opened the door. The cold hit him. The snow was deep. The path was narrow. But it was there. He stepped out. Walked to the barn. His boots crunched. His breath steamed. His knee hurt. His back hurt. His hands were numb. But he walked. He reached the barn. Put his hand on the door. The wood was cold. The latch was frozen. He pulled. The door opened. The barn was dark. The stalls were clean. The saddle was on the wall. The bridle was on the hook. The shovel was leaning against the door. He walked to the saddle. Put his hand on it. The leather was cracked. The stitching was loose. But it was there. He walked to the bridle. Lifted it off the hook. The leather was stiff. The bit was rusted. But it was there. He held it in his hands. His daughter's initials were carved into the leather. Faded. But there. He looked at the stalls. The clean stalls. The empty stalls. The stalls that were waiting. He thought about the spring. The work he'd do. The things he'd fix. The things he'd save. He thought about the phone call he'd make. The words he'd say. The things he'd tell his daughter, finally, after all these years, about the barn, about the horses, about the life that was still here, still his, still waiting. He hung the bridle back on the hook. The leather creaked. The bit clinked. He walked to the door. Looked out at the snow. The sun was higher. The snow was bright. The path was clear. The house was waiting. He stepped out. Pulled the door closed. The latch caught. The barn was dark. The stalls were clean. The saddle was on the wall. The bridle was on the hook. The shovel was leaning against the door. The barn was waiting. Leo walked back to the house. The path was narrow. His boots crunched. His breath steamed. His knee hurt. His back hurt. His hands were numb. But he walked. He walked to the house. Opened the door. Went inside. The house was cold. The fire was out. But the sun was at the window, and the barn was in the field, and the day was new. He went to the stove. Opened the damper. Put in wood. Lit it. The fire caught. The stove warmed. The kitchen started to heat. He went to the cupboard. Took out the coffee. The pot. The water. Made coffee. Sat at the table. The sun was in the window. The barn was in the field. The coffee was hot. He looked at his hands. The hands that were old and stiff and didn't work the way they used to. The hands that had shoveled a path, cleaned a stall, held a saddle, touched a bridle. The hands that had done something yesterday that he hadn't done in five years. The hands that would do something today, and tomorrow, and the day after that. The hands that were still his. The hands that were still good. The hands that were still working. He drank his coffee. The sun rose higher. The snow started to melt. The path got wider. The barn stood in the field. Its roof sagged. Its walls leaned. Its door was closed. But it was standing. It was still standing. Leo finished his coffee. Put the cup in the sink. Walked to the window. Looked at the barn. The shovel was leaning against the door. The path was clear. The sun was on the roof, on the walls, on the door that was closed but not locked, not empty, not gone. He thought about the spring. The work he'd do. The roof he'd fix. The walls he'd straighten. The door he'd replace. The stalls he'd fill. Not with horses. He was too old for horses. But with something. Something that needed him. Something that was worth keeping. He thought about his daughter. The call he'd make. When the lines were clear. When the power was back. When he could hear her voice on the other end. He'd tell her about the snow. About the barn. About the path. He'd tell her that he was okay. That he was fine. That he was here. That he was staying. He thought about the words he'd say. The words he'd never said. The words he'd been holding for five years, for ten years, for a lifetime. The words that were waiting, the way the barn was waiting, the way the stalls were waiting, the way the shovel was waiting, leaning against the door, ready for the next thing, the next day, the next season, the next time he needed to clear a path. He turned away from the window. Walked to the door. Put on his coat. His boots. His gloves. The same coat. The same boots. The same gloves. He opened the door. The cold hit him. The snow was deep. The path was narrow. But it was there. He stepped out. Walked to the barn. His boots crunched. His breath steamed. His knee hurt. His back hurt. His hands were numb. But he walked. He reached the barn. Put his hand on the door. The wood was cold. The latch was frozen. He pulled. The door opened. The barn was dark. The stalls were clean. The saddle was on the wall. The bridle was on the hook. The shovel was leaning against the door. He picked up the shovel. The handle was worn. The blade was rusted. But it was his. It was still his. He walked out of the barn. Pulled the door closed. The latch caught. He stood in the snow. The sun was high. The snow was bright. The barn was behind him. The house was in front of him. The path was between them. He started shoveling. The snow was heavy. The blade was rusted. His arms were tired. His back was sore. His hands were numb. But he kept going. One shovel. Two. Three. He widened the path. Cleared the door. Cleared the steps. Cleared a place where something could come and go, where something could live, where something could start. He worked until the sun was high, until the sweat was on his face, until the path was wide enough for two, wide enough for a horse, wide enough for anything that wanted to come through. He worked until the shovel was heavy in his hands, until his arms were shaking, until his back was a line of fire. He worked until the path was clear, the door was free, the barn was open to the sun. He stopped. Leaned on the shovel. Looked at what he'd done. The path was wide. The door was clear. The snow was piled on either side. The barn was in the sun. The house was in the sun. The world was white and bright and new. He put the shovel down. Leaned it against the door. Where it belonged. Where it would be, waiting, for the next time he needed it. He walked to the house. The path was wide. His boots crunched. His breath steamed. His knee hurt. His back hurt. His hands were numb. But he walked. He walked to the house. Opened the door. Went inside. The house was warm. The fire was burning. The sun was at the window. The barn was in the field. The path was clear. Leo took off his coat. His boots. His gloves. He sat in his chair. The fire crackled. The sun was warm. The barn was waiting. He closed his eyes. He thought about the phone call. He'd make it soon. When the power was back. When the lines were clear. He'd tell his daughter about the snow. About the barn. About the path. He'd tell her that he was okay. That he was fine. That he was here. That he was staying. He'd tell her about the shovel. The stalls. The saddle. The bridle. He'd tell her about the spring. The roof he'd fix. The walls he'd straighten. The door he'd replace. The things he'd save. The things he'd keep. The things he'd pass on, someday, to someone who would know what to do with them. He opened his eyes. The sun was at the window. The barn was in the field. The path was clear. Leo looked at his hands. The hands that were old and stiff and didn't work the way they used to. The hands that had shoveled a path, cleaned a stall, held a saddle, touched a bridle. The hands that had done something today. That would do something tomorrow. That would do something every day, for as long as there were days to do them. He looked out the window. The snow was melting. The path was clear. The barn was standing. The shovel was leaning against the door. The sun was on the roof, on the walls, on the door that was open now, open to the sun, open to the day, open to whatever came next. Leo smiled. He didn't know he was smiling. But he was smiling. At the barn. At the snow. At the sun. At the day that was new, that was his, that was waiting for him to step into it, to do the work, to live the life that was still here, still his, still something worth keeping. He sat in his chair. The fire was warm. The sun was bright. The barn was waiting. And Leo Cross, who had been waiting for something to end, who had been waiting for something to die, who had been waiting for something to take him the way it had taken Sadie, the way it had taken his wife, the way it had taken everything he'd ever loved—Leo Cross, who had been waiting for the end, sat in his chair and watched the snow melt and the path widen and the barn stand in the sun, and he knew, finally, that he was waiting for something else. He was waiting for spring. For the work. For the life that was still here, still his, still something he could hold in his hands, the way he held the shovel, the way he held the bridle, the way he held the memory of a horse named Sadie who had carried his daughter through the fields and the woods and the clear morning air, who had carried her into a life that was wide and bright and full of everything that was worth keeping. He closed his eyes. The sun was on his face. The fire was at his back. The barn was in his mind, its roof sagging, its walls leaning, its door open to the sun. The shovel was in his hands. The path was at his feet. The spring was coming. The work was waiting. And Leo Cross, who had thought he was done, who had thought he was finished, who had thought there was nothing left for him but the chair and the window and the waiting, opened his eyes and saw the barn standing in the sun, and he knew, for the first time in five years, that he was not done. That he was not finished. That there was still work to do. That there was still a life to live. That there was still a path to clear, and a barn to fix, and a spring to plant, and a daughter to call, and words to say that he had never said but would say now, finally, before it was too late, before the snow came again, before the winter took him the way it took everything that waited too long. He stood up. Walked to the phone. It was dead. The lines were down. But he picked it up anyway. Held it to his ear. Listened to the silence. And in the silence, he heard something. Not his daughter's voice. Not yet. But something. Something that was coming. Something that was waiting. Something that would come, when the lines were clear, when the snow was gone, when the spring was here. He put the phone down. Walked to the window. Looked at the barn. The sun was on the roof. The snow was melting. The path was clear. The shovel was leaning against the door. The barn was standing. He put his hand on the glass. The glass was cold. His hand was warm. He looked at the barn. The barn that his grandfather had built. That his father had fixed. That he had let fall. That he would fix now, this spring, with his own hands, the hands that were old and stiff and didn't work the way they used to, but would work, would work, would work, for as long as there was work to do. He smiled. He didn't know he was smiling. But he was smiling. At the barn. At the snow. At the sun. At the spring that was coming. At the life that was still here, still his, still something he could hold in his hands, the way he held the shovel, the way he held the bridle, the way he held the memory of a horse who had carried his daughter into the world and had carried her away and had left him here, in this house, on this land, with this barn that was still standing, still waiting, still his. He turned away from the window. Walked to the stove. Put another log on the fire. The flames caught. The room warmed. He walked to the cupboard. Took out a cup. Poured coffee. Sat at the table. The sun was at the window. The barn was in the field. The path was clear. The day was his. He drank his coffee. The sun rose higher. The snow melted. The path got wider. The barn stood in the sun. And Leo Cross, who had been waiting for the end, who had been waiting for the winter, who had been waiting for the snow to bury him the way it had buried everything he'd ever loved, sat at his kitchen table and watched the sun on the barn and thought about the spring. The spring was coming. The work was waiting. And Leo Cross was here. He was still here. And he was not done.

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