Chapter 13 - The First Real Snow
By midnight, the temperature outside had dropped into the low twenties, and a real, heavy winter storm began to roll down out of Canada, turning the dirty slush on Maple Street into a thick, pristine blanket of white flakes that muffled the sound of passing cars and gave the old neighborhood the quiet, magical stillness of a classic holiday card.
Ellie was sleeping soundly in her own bed upstairs.
Frank was stretched out on the sofa with an afghan blanket pulled up to his chin, snoring softly with the steady rhythm of a man who hadn't slept this peacefully in four decades.
Hannah sat on the front porch in her heavy wool cardigan—the one she had grabbed off the hook before running out into the cold the night before—holding a mug of hot tea between both hands.
The bruise on her cheekbone throbbed slightly in the crisp night air, a dull, purplish reminder of everything she had left behind.
Her phone buzzed once on the small side table beside her chair.
She picked it up, expecting another frantic text from Ryan or an angry email from Judith about the trust documents.
Instead, it was a photo message from Paige.
The image was taken inside the grand dining room on Canterbury Lane. The twelve-foot tree was still lit with its expensive German white lights, and the garlands still hung from the staircase.
But the room was empty.
No one was sitting at the massive mahogany table. The silver was locked away in the sideboard, the cranberry spill had been scrubbed out with club soda leaving a pale, bleached ghost mark on the damask runner, and through the double french doors in the background, Judith could be seen sitting alone at the kitchen island with a glass of wine, staring blankly at her tablet.
Beneath the photo, Paige had typed a single, simple sentence:
“It’s very quiet here tonight, Hannah. Happy holidays.”
Hannah stared at the screen for a long, quiet moment. Then, with a steady hand, she typed back:
“Merry Christmas, Paige.”
May you like
She locked the phone, set it face down on the table, and leaned back against the wooden railing of the porch.
The snow continued to fall around her, soft and heavy and clean, burying the old world under a blanket of absolute white, leaving only the sound of the wind through the bare oak branches and the warm, bright light shining from the windows of her own home.
