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the road into town had narrowed since she was a girl, or perhaps she had simply grown used to wider things. She had spent years convincing herself that returning would change nothing.

The bus pulled away and left her alone at the corner. Yet there he was, standing beneath the same winter sky, waiting as though no time had passed between them.

For a moment neither of them spoke. The silence carried everything they had never managed to say.

Evelyn tightened her coat and looked toward the house at the end of the road. The porch light was on, the way it always had been, as if someone had simply forgotten to turn it off.

“You came back,” he said at last.

She wanted to tell him it meant nothing, that she had only come for the funeral and would be gone by Sunday. Instead she heard herself say his name, and the snow went on falling between them, soft and patient, as it had that last winter.

He took a step toward her and stopped, as though the distance were something he had promised to keep. Somewhere behind them a door opened and closed. Neither of them turned to look.