Shop.
House.
Road.
Snow.
Then one evening an ice storm cut power across half the county.
Coulter and Adeline were still at the shop when the lights died.
The radio stopped.
The compressor silenced.
Darkness swallowed the building except for emergency lights.
“Great,” Coulter muttered.
Road conditions were too dangerous to leave immediately.
They lit an old camping lantern.
Sat near the stove.
Snow struck the windows in soft bursts.
A branch broke somewhere outside.
For once, there was nothing to repair and no paperwork urgent enough to matter.
Coulter looked at the lantern.
“I meant it.”
Adeline knew immediately.
“The wife thing?”
He nodded.
She waited.
“I’ve thought about how stupid that sounded.”
“It sounded very stupid.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He smiled.
Then grew serious.
“The shop never really needed another employee.”
Adeline looked around.
“It absolutely did.”
“Let me finish.”
She folded her hands.
Coulter stared toward the workbench.
“My wife made this place feel like more than work.”
His voice became quieter.
“She’d bring lunch. Keep track of birthdays. Know which customers had sick kids. Make sure the guys went home when they’d worked too long.”
He swallowed.
“When she died, I thought what I missed was having someone take care of things.”
Adeline said nothing.
“It wasn’t.”
He looked at her.
“I missed having somebody choose to be here.”
Outside, wind moved through the building seams.
“I said I needed a wife because I didn’t know how to say I was tired of going home to an empty house.”
Adeline’s chest tightened.
“I don’t need someone to cook.”
“That’s fortunate.”
“I know.”
“Your cooking is terrible.”
“Can I finish?”
She smiled.
“Yes.”
“I don’t need someone to clean or run my business.”
He looked at the organized office.
“Obviously you’re going to run the business whether I ask or not.”
“Correct.”
“What I want is someone who wants to be here tomorrow.”
The humor disappeared.
“And the day after that.”
Adeline felt every rejection of the previous two years sitting behind her ribs.
Every application ignored.
Every call unanswered.
Every room where someone had decided she was dangerous because she had told the truth.
Coulter continued.
“I don’t have a ring.”
Her eyes moved automatically to the wedding band hanging from the wrench.
He followed her gaze.
“That ring isn’t available.”
“I wouldn’t ask.”
“I know.”
His voice cracked almost imperceptibly.
“That was hers.”
Adeline nodded.
“I’m not asking you to replace her.”
“I know.”
“I don’t think people get replaced.”
“Neither do I.”
He reached toward her.
Stopped halfway.
Adeline closed the distance and took his hand.
She did not say yes.
Not that night.
It was too much.
Too soon.
Too real.
But she held his hand while the storm pushed snow against the windows.
For Coulter, that was enough.
For Adeline, it was terrifying.
Hope often is when a person has lived without it long enough.
Spring arrived slowly.
Snow became mud.
Mud became gravel again.