The new year did not arrive with noise.
Phillip noticed that first.
There were bells, yes, and some distant shouting near midnight, but nothing that cut through the cold or demanded attention. When January first came, it did so quietly, like the snowmelt that had already begun reshaping the roads. The calendar changed. The wires remained.
Phillip woke to pale light again, though this time it was thinner, sharper. The kind of winter sun that promised clarity without warmth. He lay still for a moment, listening. The sounder clicked once, paused, then resumed at a steady pace. Routine traffic. No urgency layered into the rhythm.
That was becoming the pattern.
He rose, dressed, and stepped into the kitchen. Henry was already there, standing by the window with a mug in hand, looking out toward the yard.
"Happy New Year," Henry said without turning.
Phillip poured himself tea. "Is it?"
