One week later, snow began to fall.
Clara measured a board while Jacob sawed, their breath fogging in the cold November air. The cabin walls were complete now, the roof frame half finished. They worked in efficient silence, a rhythm forming through days of shared labor.
“Hold this steady,” Jacob said, lifting a beam.
Clara braced it while he hammered.
Snow dusted their shoulders and melted down the back of their necks.
Then, out of nowhere, Clara spoke.
“Thomas used to drink.”
Jacob didn’t stop working, but he listened.
“Started after we lost our first baby,” she said. “Got mean when he drank.”
Jacob’s hammer kept its rhythm.
