The thaw came unevenly.
Phillip noticed it not in temperature, but in sound. The yard no longer rang with the brittle echo of frozen ground under boots. Footsteps landed heavier now, duller, absorbed by earth that had begun to soften again. Carts creaked differently. Horses snorted more, steam rising not from exertion but from damp hides.
Winter was loosening its grip without asking permission.
Phillip woke before the sounder that morning, the habit persisting even as necessity faded. He lay still for a moment, listening to the house. Henry's breathing through the wall. The faint tick of cooling iron from the stove. Somewhere outside, a crow called once, then went quiet.
When the sounder did begin its steady clicking, it felt almost belated.
He dressed without hurry and stepped into the kitchen. Henry was already there, sleeves rolled, bread cut thickly, a knife resting across the board like it had been set down mid-thought.
"You're up early," Henry said.
