|7 days later|

    The light came in slow.

Not golden, not soft—just pale and unsteady, the kind that doesn't warm so much as it reveals. It slipped through the cracks in the loft slats like it was trespassing, careful not to wake the dust or disturb the hush that blanketed everything. It pooled in the hollows between floorboards, stretched long and thin across the quilt, and touched the edge of the rope rail like it was remembering something it didn't quite know how to hold.

I hadn't meant to wake. Not really. But some part of me always did when he moved. The quiet absence of his body had weight, and even in sleep, I felt it shift.

Still curled on my side, I reached out across the bed—instinct more than thought—my fingers sweeping slow across the place where he should've been.

The cotton was cold. Not cool from a breath of wind or the draft that sometimes sneaked in through the barn roof, but settled. Long gone. The kind of cold that told the truth no matter how much you didn't want to hear it.

I flattened my palm against it anyway. Held still. Like maybe if I was quiet enough, he'd reappear. Like maybe I'd misread the signs, and he'd come walking up the loft steps with morning on his shoulders and coffee in his hands.

But there was no sound. No boots. No voice. No warmth bleeding back into the sheets.

My eyes opened, slow and wide, the ceiling above me nothing but a blur of pine beams and skylight—gray and washed out, the kind of color winter wore when it forgot how to be beautiful.

I stayed there for a moment, staring at nothing, the breath caught somewhere between my ribs and throat. The kind of pause that didn't feel like stillness, but bracing. Like my body already knew what came next and was trying to give me a head start.

Then I called his name.

Once. Soft.

"Colt?"

It hung in the loft like a thread waiting to snap.

Nothing answered.

And then I was moving. Fast. Messy. Like the truth had finally caught up with my body and shoved it forward. I threw the quilt aside, its weight folding in on itself like something that couldn't hold me anymore, and I stood too quick—dizzy for half a second, toes hitting the cold pine with a slap that sounded too loud for a morning that hadn't even begun yet.

The stairs creaked beneath me as I took them barefoot, not careful. My pajama pants dragged behind me, fleece catching on the worn wood, knees nearly buckling when I missed a step and caught myself on the banister like that might be where he was waiting.

But when I reached the barn floor, the silence was too complete.

Not just quiet. Absent.

The kind of silence that presses in on the lungs, fills the hollows behind your ribs like smoke, refuses to let sound find a place to land. I stood still for a breath too long, eyes darting toward the stalls as if one of them might hold an answer. But the air only held the faint memory of him—faded soap, old leather, something warmer I couldn't name.

I moved toward Red's stall without thinking, my heart rising into the hollow of my throat like it could stop what I already knew. My hand gripped the top rail, steadying myself. The gate was unlatched. The bedding inside—flat, untouched, the way it always looked before a horse stepped into it. No scuffed straw. No half-moon prints in the dirt. No shift of weight in the shadows. No warm breath huffing into the cold.

Just straw. And space. And nothing.

Red was gone.

Colt wouldn't have left without saying goodbye.

That was the thought I clung to as I backed away from Red's empty stall, hand still resting on the gate like maybe if I held it long enough, the past few minutes would reverse themselves. That I'd hear a nicker from behind me, the scrape of hooves, the deep timbre of his voice muttering something low to the horse he trusted more than anyone alive. That I'd turn and find him right there, rope slung over one shoulder, his smile crooked, his eyes steady, saying something like, "You didn't think I'd leave without you kissin' me first, did you?"

But all I heard was the wind.

And the way it moved through the barn—slow and hushed, like it knew something I didn't want to know yet.

Maybe he out riding. Or down at the creek, walking Red along the edge where the frost never quite melts. Maybe he's checking the fence line, tightening boards the wind loosened in the night. Maybe he left early to grab coffee from the diner—black, two sugars—and he's coming right back. He just forgot to leave a note. Or didn't think he'd be gone long enough to need one.

I gripped the barn door and pulled it open with more force than I meant to. The hinges shrieked. The cold rushed in like it had been waiting.

Snow kissed my feet the second I stepped outside. Sharp and soft at once, stinging between my toes and icing up the hem of my pajama pants. I didn't feel it. Or maybe I just didn't let myself. I was already halfway across the yard before I realized I hadn't put shoes on. The wind caught my hair, pulled it loose from the braid I'd slept in, and the sky above was that washed-out kind of gray that looked like it forgot how to be morning.

I crossed the porch in three steps and threw open the front door.

Warmth met me like a hand to the chest.

The kind of warmth that doesn't just come from heat, but from memory. The house smelled like cedar garland and cinnamon and faintly burnt coffee grounds. The Christmas tree stood quiet in the corner, lightless but dressed. Its branches heavy with ornaments I remembered unpacking—each one pulled from tissue like bone from dust. A felt snowman. A brass bell. The blue glass colt Mama bought the first year Daddy couldn't be home for Christmas—said we needed something new to look forward to, even if we were still aching.

I stepped into the kitchen first, half-hoping for movement. A sound. A shadow. Something.

The coffee pot sat on the warmer, burned low to tar. What little was left had gone bitter hours ago, clinging to the glass in thick swirls. His mug—black with a chipped handle, the one he always claimed wasn't his favorite—rested in the sink like it hadn't decided if it was done being used. A half-ring of coffee still clung to the inside. The last of him, etched in silence.

His flannel was draped over the back of the dining chair, collar slightly curled like it had held the shape of his body too long. I reached for it without thinking, ran my fingers along the hem. Still faintly warm. Or maybe I just imagined that part.

I moved through the house like I was chasing breath. Like if I moved fast enough, I could catch whatever pieces of him hadn't made it out the door.

The hallway closet—just coats.

The bathroom—fog on the mirror from the pipes warming, but only one toothbrush in the cup now. Mine.

The guest room—undisturbed.

The laundry room—quiet.

The den.

Nothing.

The house wasn't empty. It was worse than that. It was full of him—his scent still clinging to the throw on the couch, the half-empty bottle of shampoo he never remembered to cap tight, the faint imprint of his hand on the dusty barn coat I'd folded days ago but hadn't put away. And if I stood still long enough, I could almost hear him—his laugh tucked somewhere in the drywall, the scrape of his chair pulled back just a little too far from the table.

But all of it felt like something left behind.

Not forgotten. Just... finished.

I turned back toward the front, my steps slowing as something cold began pressing in behind my ribs—tight and deliberate, like truth had finally caught up and didn't need to knock.

That was when I saw it.

On the entry table, right where my hand would fall if I reached for my keys.

A single sheet of paper. Folded once. Clean. Intentional.

My name written across the front in his handwriting—block letters, slightly slanted, like he'd taken his time. Like he'd sat there a while before deciding on the shape of it. Lemon.

I didn't sit. Didn't breathe, not really. Just picked it up and opened it.

Lemon—

I tried to wake you. Swear I did.

You looked peaceful, and I couldn't take that from you.

Didn't want the last thing you remembered to be me walkin' away.

I don't know what this all means yet. I just know I had to go.

But I'll be back. That's the only thing I'm sure of.

I love you. Always will.

—Colt

I read it once.
Then again.

Slower the second time, like the words might shift if I gave them long enough to breathe. But they didn't. They stayed still—quiet and certain and heavy in the way only Colt's words ever were.

I folded the letter once more, slow. Pressed the crease with my thumb like that would hold it steady.

And then I stood there—barefoot, still in pajamas, heart pulled thin across the morning—just listening. Not for footsteps. Not anymore.

But for silence.

The kind that meant he was really gone.

And the fireflies in my chest—
all of them—
went still.

Ω

    The cold came in differently now.
Not as a gust or a bite, but as something quieter. Smarter. It didn't knock. It slipped in through the seams—tucked itself into the folds of the house, curled beneath the porch rail, settled in the space where his boots used to sit.
It didn't ask to be let in. It already belonged here.

It lived in the silence.
In the way the door hinges creaked too loud now, or how the kitchen faucet dripped like it was keeping time for a song no one else remembered. It lived in the way my body moved through rooms like I was trying not to wake something sleeping, except there was nothing left to wake.

I didn't cry. Not where anyone could hear.

I just worked.

Mornings started in the dark again.
Before the sun had the nerve to rise, before the frost had even finished setting its teeth across the window glass, I was already moving—pulling on boots with stiff hands, shoving my arms into a jacket that didn't fit quite right without his across from me. I fed the horses in silence, the breath from their nostrils blooming white in the cold, the hay rough and brittle in my palms. I kicked ice from the troughs with the heel of my boot until my ankle ached.
I redid the gate to the upper pasture twice. It didn't need it.
But I needed something to fix. Something I could press my hands into.

Spice knocked her panel loose again on the fourth morning—kicked it halfway off the hinges and stared at me like she was daring me to come undo it. I didn't yell. Didn't even mutter. Just got the hammer from the barn wall, braced the board with my hip, and drove the nail in harder than I needed to. I felt the splinter crack against my palm and let it stay there.

It didn't bleed.

Not loud enough to matter.

The house wasn't empty. It just didn't hold him anymore.

That was the cruel part of it—the way everything still looked the same. The way the curtains still swayed inward around this time of day, catching the same breeze that used to mess up his hair. The way the floor groaned when I stepped past the front entry, that one loose board he always skipped without looking. His flannel still hung on the back of the chair, not folded, not forgotten—just there. One cuff curled slightly, like it remembered the bend of his wrist, the way he'd reach for me across the table without thinking.

It felt like living inside a memory that hadn't figured out it was over.

I didn't wear it at first— his flannel.

Not because I didn't want to.

But because it felt like if I did, I'd be admitting he wasn't coming back soon enough for it to still be his.

But on the fifth day, when the canyon wind blew hard enough to rattle the windows and slice through every layer I'd piled on, I walked into the kitchen with my hair still wet from the cold and pulled it off the chair. The smell was faint now—cedar, and soap, and something that always reminded me of matchbooks and dust and men who don't say much but mean every word when they do.

I slid it on slow, like the fabric might flinch if I rushed. The collar brushed against the side of my neck, and for a moment, I just stood there at the sink, hands braced on either side, chest rising against the ache that hadn't softened since he left. I didn't cry. But I felt like I might. That brittle kind of ache that builds and builds until your throat feels too tight to swallow and your eyes start stinging before you even understand why. I bit down on it. Held my breath. Tried to breathe through it like air could stitch something shut.

And then I closed my eyes. Let the weight settle where it wanted. Tried to pull forward a memory—one that hadn't gone quiet around the edges yet. Not the last kiss. Not the loft. Just that small, steady moment after, when the world had gone still and his breath warmed the skin behind my ear. That's what I wanted back. The parts that didn't rush. The ones that stayed.

I kept moving. That's how I survived it. By not sitting too long. By keeping my hands full.

But I almost texted him.

More than once.

The first time was when a new colt arrived off the trailer, all bone and defiance. Big knees, wild eyes, too much neck for his body. The kind of mess Colt always said meant the horse had potential—it just hadn't learned how to carry itself yet. I pulled my phone from the pocket of my coat, thumb hovered over the keys. You'd like this one, I typed. All knees and no sense. I stared at it for a full minute. Then I backspaced every word.

The second time came the morning Spice kicked the south gate clean off its hinges and sauntered out like she had an errand in town. I found her halfway up the ridge, tail flicking like she hadn't just made my morning harder. I started to type: Your mare's a menace. But by the time I made it back to the barn, I couldn't bring myself to send it.

The third time was smaller. Sadder.
I opened the drawer in the bathroom, searching for bandages, and there it was—his toothbrush. Blue. Frayed at the edges. I thought I'd thrown it out days ago. I picked it up without meaning to, just stared at it resting in my hand like a thing that didn't know it had been left behind. I stood there too long. Didn't say anything. Just put it back and closed the drawer slow, like silence might keep it from shattering me.

And the fourth—
The fourth was during the storm. The one that came in sharp and sudden, flinging sleet sideways across the roof so hard I sat straight up in bed. My heart was already racing before I realized it wasn't the wind that scared me. It was the emptiness beside me. The stillness where he should've been. I opened my phone and typed: You okay? Two words. Just two. I read them over and over like maybe they'd answer themselves. Then I hit delete. Shut the screen. Turned my face toward the wall.

He was probably in Amarillo by now.
Maybe sleeping off a long drive, or taping his wrist like he always did—tight enough to hold together what was already fraying. Maybe brushing Red down in a stall that smelled like bleach and metal and sawdust instead of sage and sweat and earth.

I told myself he'd text.
Eventually.

He always had before.

But the days stretched long and wordless.

The kind of time you can't measure with clocks—only with distance.

A week passed, slipping by like smoke through the trees. You can't hold smoke. You just learn to watch it leave.

And then Nationals came.