“You don’t have to prove anything anymore, Daddy,” she told him.
That was easy to say from a house with central heat and neighbors close enough to hear you fall.
Out here, proving you could still do things was half the reason to get up.
After the flock was gone, the silence changed shape.
It was no longer peaceful.
It was accusing.
The barn felt too large.
The pasture looked ashamed.
Even the wind seemed unsure what to do with itself.
Blue wandered the field every morning anyway.
He limped through the frosted grass, nose low, circling the empty places where the sheep used to bunch together.
Sometimes he stopped and looked back at Walter with cloudy old eyes, like he was asking for instructions.
Walter never had any.
At night, the house seemed to shrink around them.
Walter heated soup.
Blue lay by the stove.
The clock in the kitchen ticked so loudly it felt rude.
Walter started talking more, just to break the sound of his own breathing.
“You remember that black ewe that used to jump the south fence?”
Blue thumped his tail once.
“You remember Ruth slipping cornbread under the table when she thought I wasn’t looking?”
Blue lifted his head.
Walter smiled at that.
Ruth had been gone eight years, but the house still held her in pieces.
A dent in the sofa cushion.
A chipped bowl she refused to throw away.
A yellow apron hanging behind the pantry door like she had just stepped outside for a minute.
Some nights Walter could almost hear her humming in the hallway.
Those were the worst nights.
The first snow came early.
Walter opened the door and found Blue standing on the porch, covered in white powder, shivering but stubborn.
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